


Red

by hello_mintblooms



Category: Aladdin (1992), Aladdin (2019), Disney - All Media Types
Genre: Developing Relationship, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Friends to Enemies, Implied Sexual Content, Mentions of Rape, Mentions of dubious consent, Mentions of sex work, Relationship(s), Romance, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2020-10-04 22:09:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 33,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20478260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hello_mintblooms/pseuds/hello_mintblooms
Summary: ***THIS FIC HAS BEEN ABANDONED AND IS INCOMPLETE.***This way, he can pretend. Pretend that it is someone else’s rage which fills him whenever he glimpses the princess’s cheap smiles and the slight tremor of her hand whenever she’s forced to offer it to the next simpleton awaiting his turn in line. He does, however, allow himself the liberty of making snide remarks whenever he feels any prospective suitor stepping out of line. Jasmine will never admit it, but Jafar notices the small quirk of her lips each and every time, and this is enough. This has to be enough, for he will get nothing more than this.Jafar has been in love with Jasmine for as long as he can remember. Haunted by the reality of her non-existent feelings for him and impending wedding, he does the one thing which he’s always done when faced with a crisis: he pushes her away.But his actions cannot erase the love which still sets his heart aflame, and now he must make a choice: tell Jasmine the truth, or watch as the only woman he has ever loved takes another man as her husband.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AMagnificentGardenParty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AMagnificentGardenParty/gifts).

> I’ve always wanted to write a story for Jafar/Jasmine, but I’ve been putting it off because I never thought I’d ever be able to do these two justice. I’m still nervous about it, if I’m honest. I want to dedicate this story to AMagnificentGardenParty for always encouraging me during the moments when I needed it most; your support has meant more to me than you will ever know. And of course, thank you to the rest of you for reading, supporting me, and being patient with me. I hope you enjoy this one!

But jealous souls will not be answered so.  
They are not ever jealous for the cause,  
But jealous for they’re jealous. It is a monster  
Be got upon itself, born on itself.

_Othello_, III.IV

It is only through years upon years of carefully-practiced, venomous smiles that Jafar has been able to ensure his survival. Most days he comes to the conclusion that he has no heart, that it had been ripped still-beating from his chest when he had been but a mere child stealing all he could in Shirabad’s winding alleys.

The day he realizes he still has his heart is precisely the day in which it is shattered and ground into dust, scattered like fine powder upon the palace’s shiny marble floors.

He remembers. Oh, does he _ever_ remember.

When the Sultan’s daughter had reached her twentieth year, the barrage of mindless suitors had begun flooding the palace like vermin. The next was always even more unbearable than the last, flaunting jewels and silks and minds that were as empty as the eyes of dead men. To say that Jasmine had not been pleased would be to state the obvious.

Jafar had seen the look in her eyes that day. She likes to play the part of strength, loves to stand tall and paint on a curved smile that dares anyone to rise and challenge her. But on that day—that first day when the suitors had come—he had spied the darkness in her eyes, the panic rising in her throat. She didn’t want this, still doesn’t want this, and while Jafar may be Grand Vizier, he does not dare to open his mouth and go against the wishes of his Sultan.

His vision turns crimson each and every time he is forced to watch Jasmine shake the hand of yet another fool. He hides his rage well. The court sees a vizier who simply wants the best for his ruler’s kingdom, but the truth is far more painful than that. It is a truth which he will never allow to escape into the world, for if it does, it will become real, and then his pain too, shall be real.

This way, he can pretend. Pretend that it is someone else’s rage which fills him whenever he glimpses the princess’s cheap smiles and the slight tremor of her hand whenever she’s forced to offer it to the next simpleton awaiting his turn in line. He does, however, allow himself the liberty of making snide remarks whenever he feels any prospective suitor stepping out of line. Jasmine will never admit it, but Jafar notices the small quirk of her lips each and every time, and this is enough. This _has_ to be enough, for he will get nothing more than this.

On Jasmine’s twenty-fifth birthday, the Sultan grows desperate, and with this desperation come suitors in waves so numerous that Jafar has lost count. These frequent visitors can only mean one thing: the princess is to be married soon, and if she does not choose, the choice shall be made for her.

Jafar almost wishes she would hurry up and decide so he can crumble to dust in peace.

“Leaving so soon, are we?” Jafar spies Jasmine hastily exiting the throne room while her father and the morning’s first prince are lost in conversation. She is clothed in a deep magenta accented with gold, her dark hair twisted at the nape of her neck. A fine line has formed between her brows, no doubt an effect of the stress which these visits have caused. She is beautiful, even when lost in a sea of desperation.

And yet…she disgusts him in a way that no one else does.

“That’s none of your concern.” Her voice is hard, her usually bright eyes like stone as she beholds him. Her gaze is always hard when he’s near, though it hasn’t always been this way. “I don’t need your help.”

Jafar leans in close, as close as the rules of decorum will allow. His frame towers over her, a fact that he is very much aware of and enjoys rather immensely. “Are you certain, my princess? It seems to me that we are…how shall we put this? _Struggling_ with the choices laid before us. Your father will be gravely disappointed if you do not choose a husband soon, and it would appear that he is not long for this world. You may wish to hurry.”

The temptation to snap the back of her hand against his cheek is overwhelming, but Jasmine knows better than to play directly into his hands. It’s what he wants, after all. He wants her to lose her patience, wants to be shown any sign that his words have broken her.

But he will not break her. Not again.

“Watch yourself,” Jasmine says, a sharp note of warning laced within her words. “You are out of line, _Grand Vizier._ You have no right to give me orders.” _Not anymore_. Jafar can read silence just as easily as he can read words printed on a page.

She turns her back and begins to stalk down the winding corridors. The back of her neck has been kissed by the sun’s rays, prompting further questions as to where she’s been sneaking off to as of late. No matter.

“I shall see you tonight at your birthday dinner, princess. At the very least _try_ to keep that unruly tongue of yours in place.” Jasmine’s steps halt momentarily, her fingers curling into fists at her side. If she caught his double meaning there, she gives no other indication of it. She resumes walking.

Jafar turns his back before he can call after her and say something he will regret.

His biggest regret thus far?

He is in love with her. He has always been in love with her, and it is a fact which will haunt him for the rest of his miserable life.

What a fool he is. A fool pining after what he cannot have. A fool playing a dangerous game that he will surely lose.

A bitter laugh escapes him. Lose? No. He _lost_ this game the moment he had first glimpsed Princess Jasmine’s face, precisely a decade before.


	2. A Broken Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is the eve of Jasmine’s twenty-fifth birthday, and Jafar cannot help but look for her wherever he goes. Unfortunately for him, his sharp tongue causes things to go awry—which is exactly the outcome he had hoped for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally have an update! This chapter was a lot of fun to write, and I truly hope you all enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it. I never thought that Jafar and Jasmine as a pairing would become so dear to me, but here we are. I also added an additional chapter, because I think the story will be long enough to warrant it. Thank you for all your support, and feel free to let me know how you liked it!

O Rose thou art sick.   
The invisible worm,   
That flies in the night   
In the howling storm: 

Has found out thy bed   
Of crimson joy:  
And his dark secret love  
Does thy life destroy.

_The Sick Rose_, William Blake

Jafar has always hated birthdays, and upon entering the palace courtyard, lavishly decorated for Princess Jasmine’s twenty-fifth birthday celebrations, he immediately decides that this is the birthday which he hates most of all.

As expected, the courtyard has been rearranged according to the night’s festivities. Long, lacquered tables laden with food from all corners of the kingdom line the walls, leaving the center free for the evening entertainment. Presumably, this will come in the form of the princess staging a dance for those assembled.

Jafar momentarily recalls having been the one to join her in such displays at quite a few of her birthdays, years ago, though those times have long since come to an end. He cannot say he misses it, for Jasmine has never taken well to being put on display like some exotic beast in a cage, nor has he enjoyed being the one to dangle her on his arm for the purpose of allowing others to ogle her in a most unbecoming manner.

He would love to have her on his arm, but for entirely different reasons.

Flowers of all varieties and colors twist around the grounds, decorating tables and lining the stone fountains in neatly arranged rows. The overpowering fragrance of ruby-red roses lingers permanently in the air, mingling with the scent of stark-white daises and the heady perfume of lavender. Jafar pointedly chooses to ignore the jasmine flowers; though faint, he can pick out the airy notes easily.

As he wades through the mass of guests, floating about like pieces of brightly-coloured sea glass washed upon the shore, Jafar is reminded precisely why he hates social functions of any kind. The court officials roam the grounds in tightly-knit groups like a swarm of locusts, beckoning to him as they attempt to grab the sleeve of his robes when he passes. This, he knows, is nothing more than an effort to engage him in mindless conversation concerning matters of little importance. Jafar has no interest in listening to them prattle on about which servant girl they plan to bed next and how best to keep the secret from their wives. He is no better than them, but at least he is not _that_. Besides, he is certain he will not be able to keep his annoyance from seeping into face, and his desire to feign pleasantness is nowhere to be seen tonight. Pretending can be quite exhausting, even for a man such as himself.

He stands in a corner, as far as possible from the guests coming in and out of the courtyard. Several groups of women clad in sparkling dresses of green and blue come to greet him, and he smiles, sending them on their way and eliciting a giggle as two of them peer back at him shyly. He fights the urge to roll his eyes.

The sky begins to grow dark, and the servants light the paper lanterns which hang on strings fashioned from tiny glass pearls. Standing motionless in his corner, golden serpent staff gripped tightly in his fingers, Jafar surveys the space for the missing piece to this party.

Jasmine is nowhere to be seen, though he supposes this should come as no surprise. Dalia, her handmaid and a recent addition to the palace, stands close to the golden set of doors leading back into the palace. She is deep in conversation with the Sultan, a smile gracing her lips as she laughs at something that the old fool says. Jafar has nothing against Hamed; if anything, he can actually say he likes the man if not for the fact that he is a hair’s-breadth away from forcing his daughter into a loveless marriage. Loveless isn’t the worst thing it can be. A sharpness twists through his chest at the mere thought.

He is about to give up when he glimpses a flash of aquamarine and gold snaking through the crowd and making for an empty table.

_There_. There she is.

Something akin to pity drums through him as he spies Jasmine seating herself at the table. She is alone, her usually bright eyes darkened by shadows. Why she isn’t with Dalia is beyond him, as she can usually be found with the woman at her side.

As always, Jasmine is a vision descended from paradise itself for the very purpose of taunting him. Her raven hair is twisted with jewels into a single braid down her back, and the blue and gold of the fabrics which she wears draw out the rich umber of her skin, reminding him of the early morning sun creeping over the sand dunes.

She is picking at a plate of fresh strawberries, likely plucked from a table when she saw that no one was close enough to engage her in empty conversation. Her expression is troubled as she prods at the fruit and arranges it neatly on her plate without taking a single bite. Despite this party being all for her—_supposedly_—she doesn’t know a damned soul. She’s never really had any friends, and for her father to call these people such is both a lie and an insult.

He was her friend, once upon a time.

Jafar allows himself this one, bitter thought before wading through the crowd and taking a seat across from her, tucking his staff beneath the table as he does so. His heart thunders wildly as he takes note of the jolt of surprise bringing to life the deadened brown of her eyes. “May I?”

She sits up straighter at the sound of his voice, as if unnerved by his sudden proximity. She will never say such a thing out loud, but his voice—that voice spun from silk and nightmares—is all she has to keep herself from tumbling into the abyss. He is both a necessity and a most unwelcome reminder. Her gaze roams across the red and gold of his robes, and suddenly she wishes she could turn him to vapor where he sits.

“Why ask when you’ve already made yourself comfortable?”she snaps, arranging her features into something Jafar assumes is supposed to be pleasantness. Anyone looking upon them would see Agrabah’s princess and vizier engaged in friendly conversation, but he knows better. He _always_ knows better.

If she had her way, Jasmine would be raking her nails across his face infull view of the entire kingdom, and for that—for _that_, Jafar plans to return her hatred—in whatever way possible.

“You seemed _so_ lonely,” he says, his tone taking on a hint of boredom. “We can’t have our precious princess looking so unhappy on her birthday, now can we? I thought you might enjoy the company.”

Jasmine offers him a tight smile before picking a strawberry off her plate. It touches her blood-red lips at precisely the moment in which Jafar snatches it from her fingers. He closes his lips around it, biting into it as he savours the sweetness on his tongue. Jasmine’s eyes are aflame when he flicks the stem back onto her plate.

“My apologies, princess,” he says, injecting as much charm as possible into his every word. “You must watch your figure these days. What would we do if you cannot fit into your wedding gown? Such an expensive piece of art gone to waste.”

She doesn’t know if he's referring to the dress or to her, but somehow it doesn’t matter. Beneath the table, she wrings her hands in her lap, imagining her fingers around Jafar’s neck as she chokes the air from his very lungs. “How fortuitous I am to have you looking out for me, Grand Vizier. What would I ever do without you?”

Jafar comes to the conclusion that Jasmine would, in fact, dance on his grave should something happen to him, but he will not give her that satisfaction. He rests his face in his palms as he allows his eyes to rake over every part of her face. “It’s my pleasure. Speaking of which…how _are_ the wedding preparations coming along?”

“Wouldn’t you like you know,” Jasmine sing-songs. “Surely a man of your position already knows all there is to know. Why on earth would you need me to give you details?”

“Perhaps,” he says slowly. “From what I hear, you have yet to choose a suitor and your father grows more impatient by the day. The clock is ticking, dearest.” As much as Hamed does not wish to make a choice for his daughter, Jafar knows it is only a matter of time. Perhaps worst of all is that he will be called upon to assist in making that choice. At the very least, he hopes he will be able to choose someone likeable enough, someone who will treat her right.

_They won’t_, says the voice in his head. _You know they won’t, no matter who you suggest to her father. They all see her as a pretty prize, nothing more. Something to flaunt and use, a means to an end._

He’s not sure what emotion he allows to slip over his face, but Jasmine takes note of it. Her brows raise in a question, which she wastes no time in voicing. “Something wrong, Grand Vizier?”

“Not all all,” he says, offering a sharp smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. She doesn’t notice. She never does. “I was just thinking that perhaps by the time you wed, I may also consider doing the same.”

Jasmine’s laugh is incredulous. She doesn’t even pretend to be shocked. “_You_? Who on earth would want to marry _you_? If it even comes to that, you’ll just scare away any woman who’s even remotely interested.”

“You tell me, princess. It’s alright to admit that you find me pleasant to look at. It can be our secret.”

Jasmine flushes, but her voice is hard when she finds it. “No thank you. I would sooner cut off my own hand than admit to such a ridiculous thing.”

“Ridiculous, is it?” Jafar leans forward on his elbows, as much as he is able with the table between them. He is so close that he can smell Jasmine’s perfume emanating off her skin. Any closer, and his lips may just barely be able to brush against hers. Instead, he lowers his voice and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Jasmine’s sharp intake of breath is hardly noticeable, but not to him. He notices everything where she is concerned. “Do not forget that _you_ wished to marry me, not that long ago. Tell yourself whatever you like if it helps you sleep at night, but you know _that_ to be true, princess.”

This is a lie, because as far as truths go, this is the last thing that could ever be called such. He is merely toying with her, and as far as he’s concerned, Jasmine had never had even an inkling of what he felt for her, nor did she ever, at any point, return his feelings. These words that he utters to her are cheap and hallow, meant to back her into a corner, to incite her fury, to make her hate him so that on her wedding day, he will be able to look at her with nothing but disgust. He will be able to look at her without feeling a single thing, hear her name with no effect upon his heart. He is convinced that she has always hated him, so a few well-placed, hurtful words will make little difference.

Jasmine’s fists curl at her sides as she rises from the table. Her smile is pasted on, as if copied directly from some tapestry or painting and pressed sloppily to her face. “Thank you for your company this evening, Grand Vizier, but I have other matters that I must attend to. You understand how busy life can be for people like us.”

Jafar rises from his seat the moment that she does, already noting the tears forming in her eyes despite her efforts to contain them. They kiss her cheeks like a sudden rain, but she is still smiling, her head held high with dignity. She will not be broken, even though she already is. For him, there is some satisfaction to be had here. “Of course, my princess,” Jafar says. “Happy Birthday.” She turns, and just before she does, Jafar notices the slight tremor in her bottom lip and knows without a doubt that she will spend the eve of her birthday alone and in tears. He smirks while simultaneously feeling his innards drop through the very ground. Perhaps there will be no evening dances to be had after all.

Part of him hates himself for it, for causing her such pain. Part of him wants to follow her, to call her name, to wipe away her tears and tell her he didn’t mean it, not a single careless word. But then there is the other part, the part which hates her for all that she represents, for the fact that he will never have her, never be able to call her his, but will instead be forced to watch her marry some useless imbecile who will never deserve her.

He doesn’t deserve her either, but he would have tried. If given the chance, at least he would have tried to earn her affections, no matter how false they would have likely proven to be.

He retreats to the past, back to a time and place where things were simpler, happier. A place where he and Jasmine did not hate each other, a place where there was warmth and some semblance of normality.

No. This is their normal now.

It will have to do.


	3. Forever (Still) Yours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After her disastrous birthday celebrations, Jasmine becomes lost in her memories—memories of a past which she knows can never be her future. She turns to the only comfort she has: a book of poetry left in her chambers without a single clue as to whom the giver might be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not entirely satisfied with this chapter, but I hope you all enjoy it regardless! In case it’s not clear, the parts in italics at the beginning is a flashback. 
> 
> I never expected to get so much love on this story, and it makes me so happy to know that so many people are finding even a little bit of joy in this fic. If you liked this chapter, please feel free to let me know! Just so you all know, you can also keep in touch with me over at Tumblr (@hello-mintblooms). I tend to post updates about my fics and just ramble on about fictional characters. Thank you again for all your support!

_The seaside tower is a hidden gem tucked carefully within the labyrinth of the palace. Saltwater, sharp and abrupt, spills into her lungs as she climbs the twisting staircase, leading into the darkness above. Her heart beats in time to the sound of her footsteps at the prospect of—yet again—wandering to a place so forbidden. _

_**Forbidden**. Jasmine almost laughs. She would indeed laugh if not for her throat tightening around the sound and the blood rushing instantly to her head. Forbidden only because of the man whom she cannot seem to stray from, not even for a moment._

_When Jasmine enters the room, she is greeted by a darkness so profound that it leaves nothing untouched. She is used to this, for she has spent many nights—more than she’d like to admit—fumbling and feeling her way through this very room in this very tower. She has long since abandoned any thoughts of keeping a tally of her visits, for they are as numerous as the grains of sand that make up the desert._

_Carefully, she treads toward the eastern corner of the room, her hands reaching out to steady herself against the walls and whatever piece of furniture her fingers are able to grasp. She stills as her foot makes contact with metal, and she knows she has found what she’s been looking for._

_If not for the soft snores filling the room, Jasmine would have thought herself to be alone. She slips into bed, bracing her hands against the metal frame as she allows her fingers to curl tentatively against the back of Jafar’s neck. The darkened silhouette of his shoulders rise and fall with his every breath._

_She tucks herself closely against his side, wary of waking him and inciting his wrath. Jafar has never been a sound sleeper, and the irony of this is not lost on her. For a man who finds reason to be suspicious of something as mundane as a chipped teacup, his failure to wake whenever she is near has not gone unnoticed. She lightly fingers the dark curls at the base of his neck._

_A hand reaches out to securely catch her wrist. Jafar turns over at once, sleep instantly vanishing from his eyes. His expression suggests that he would prefer to have the Sultan display his severed head atop the palace gates rather than have the princess nestled comfortably in his bed._

_“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” he hisses in that obnoxiously fine voice that both chills and warms her very bones. “It must be at least three in the morning. Get out.”_

_Jasmine nearly chokes at the sound of his voice, honeyed like the sweetness of a baker’s tart. His hand still clasps her wrist. “Dismissing me so soon?” she shoots back, sitting up in bed. Jafar releases his hold on her. Her skin burns from where he has touched her. But a more pressing concern ails her; Jafar is completely bare from his shoulders to his waist, a fact that is becoming increasingly difficult to ignore._

_Jafar’s brow raises in a question. He lays back, tucking his hands behind his head. “Shouldn’t you be mingling with the guests and making yourself likeable?”_

_He does have a point. It **is** the evening of her twenty-first birthday, and she **should** be in the courtyard making conversation, but she truly cannot bring herself to give any less of a damn. “Shouldn’t you be in the courtyard standing by my father’s side like a spectre of death? I hear the guards are missing their revered three-headed dog.”_

_Biting the inside of his cheek—likely to stifle an incoming snide remark—Jafar turns to the princess and meets her eyes. Though he is silent, she can still tell that his thoughts are furiously working in that head of his, trying to piece together a puzzle which she cannot see. He spares a glance to her outfit, a rich midnight blue, before forcing his gaze to the open window. “If you are referring to Cerberus, my sweet, then I’ll have you know he was loved by many.”_

_Jasmine scoffs. “Which is astounding, considering that the opposite is true for you. Besides, you forget your studies. Even the dead couldn’t tolerate him.”_

_Judging by the sudden tightness of his jaw, Jasmine guesses that she’s stirred up something that may be best left alone. Sighing, Jafar groans, “Another year has passed, and yet you still remain as much of a nuisance as ever.” He stretches, and, turning back to Jasmine says, “Tell me, what would your dear father say if he knew you were in bed with a barely-clothed man at your side?”_

_He would likely either kill her, kill Jafar, or come to the conclusion that his vizier was only attempting to safeguard her virtue, though she says none of this to Jafar. In fact, she would prefer it if her father allowed her to marry who she wishes, because then..._

_She cannot allow herself to think it, for thinking will mean hoping, and where there is hope there is only disappointment. She forces a look of boredom to cross her features. “What, are you going to tell on me and accuse me of impropriety?”_

_Jafar’s grin is slow, salacious, and suggestive. “Where would be the fun in that when no such impropriety has taken place? That is, unless you are propositioning me, princess? I could not say I would mind. I’ll have you know that fornication is but one of my many talents.”_

_Jasmine grabs one of several pillows arranged neatly on the bed and launches it at Jafar’s head before he has the chance to see the blush reddening her cheeks. He dodges the blow with a simple tilt of his chin. “Careful vizier,” Jasmine warns. “Mind your manners.”_

_“You know I am always on my best behaviour.” Jafar’s breath tickles her lips, and Jasmine can’t help imagining the taste of his kiss. What it would be like, feel like. “Are we really going to play these games, sweet one? When it’s just the two of us?” Tucking behind her ear a strand of hair that has escaped from her braid, he asks, “Why are you here? Tell me honestly.”_

_It’s not that Jasmine does not wish to tell him. How often has she come to him, bearing for him stories of her woes, of foreign princes making crude remarks about her body, or of potential suitors putting their hands where they do not belong? The last time she had come to him, she had told him precisely this tale, resulting in the prince’s kingdom sinking into ruin within mere days. Nothing in it had been salvageable, and though Jafar had never said it, she knew without a doubt that it had been his doing. For her, he would find it within himself to destroy empires, and for this she does not know whether to be grateful or afraid. _

_Instead she simply says, “I’m tired.” It’s not necessarily a lie, because she is tired. Tired of wearing a fake smile and being prettied up like the latest child’s toy._

_“Are you?” he asks. His question suggests that he already knows the thoughts swirling about her head. It doesn’t seem to matter what she chooses to conceal from him, because on some level, he always knows. Always. “Would it be so bad to marry one of those men? Surely you could learn to stand at least one of them.”_

_“I really can’t,” Jasmine tells him; she has barely allowed him to finish his sentence. She hesitates, carefully weighing her words. “Although, the particularly awful ones don’t seem to bother me much when you’re around.”_

_Eyeing her with increasing levels of suspicion, Jafar asks, “Would you prefer it if I was always around?” She nods before the meaning of his words are able to truly sink in. A look that can only be described as utterly delightful crosses his face. His attempt to disguise it comes far too late. “That would defeat the entire purpose of this suitor business, I’m afraid. Unless you’re looking to wed the Grand Vizier and have war knocking on our doors, I highly suggest you make a choice, and make it quickly at that. Your father may be a patient man, but even he will not wait forever.”_

_She knows that he is right. Outright refusing to marry will mean the total severing of key political alliances, and worse still, the start of war. But if she had a choice... If she had a choice, she knows precisely whom she would choose, politics be damned._

_“Is that what you really want?” Jasmine asks him, her voice tinged with weariness._

_Silence. Jafar avoids the scrutiny of her gaze by choosing to stare at a linen set of scarlet sheets folded neatly on a chaise. “I asked you a question,” Jasmine says, voice lined with a silvery edge. “Is that what you want, Jafar?”_

_He turns at the sound of his name passing through her lips, his face poised to crack in two at the fear threaded through each of her words. Shifting himself closer, just barely scraping his beard against the curve of her jaw, he whispers, “It does not matter what I want.” His breath tickles her cheek as he ghosts his lips over her skin. They are a cold fire blazing through her very soul. He goes silent, considering, then murmurs, “Happy Birthday, Jasmine. Now, be a good girl and get out of my sight.”_

_Turning over in bed and facing his princess, Jafar closes his eyes, seemingly ready to drift off to sleep. But then, his arm stretches out between them, his palm open and inviting. Daring her, spurring her to action, **begging** her to make a choice, even if that choice involves her descending the tower stairs at a run._

_Jasmine lays back, and, slipping her hand in his, feels Jafar’s fingers curling tightly around her own. She squeezes back, her eyes automatically closing at the comfort in his touch._

_“You will be gone before sunrise, princess,” Jafar orders, his voice rough and tinged with sleep. “Not at sunrise, but before. Understand?”_

_“I was never here.” Jafar gives her fingers one last squeeze before surrendering himself wholly to sleep._

***

Jasmine is inconsolable. Fury burns through her at Jafar’s humiliation of her last night, at his daring to get a rise out of her. And of all nights, he chose her birthday. The _bastard_. Evidently, not much has changed.

Wiping at the tears staining her cheeks, she looks to the open window, the seaside tower standing as both a beacon of hope and an extinguished flame in the stillness of the morning. Once, she would have climbed that endless staircase, seeking comfort within the darkness. Now, all she will find there is hatred and bitterness, tainted by memories of the past.

Her face crumples at the memories locked within that tower, and she cries, allowing the wounds to split open once again.

Something wet nudges her hand. Through her blurred vision, Jasmine can make out a mass of orange and black fur. It is Rajah, her pet tiger and constant companion. Sometimes, he too is a reminder of the memories she cannot escape, the memories which crush her in an iron grip and refuse to let go.

A familiar piece of fabric is gripped tightly between his jaws, and somehow, she knows exactly what it is even before her fingers reach for the scarlet linen. Rajah nudges her hand, purring, before settling himself in a corner of the room and onto a pile of his mistress’ clean dresses that were meant to be hung in the wardrobe. Said mistress can’t say that she’s bothered.

The handkerchief is a peculiar thing. She turns it over in her hands, thumbs smoothing over the linen that is stained permanently by time and memories. The fabric is damp from where Rajah had clamped it between his teeth. 

She cannot recall exactly where she had acquired it. Once, she remembers having used it to mend a tear at the hem of her favorite skirt. The next morning, without any explanation as to how or why, the handkerchief had appeared folded neatly on her dresser, and her once-mended skirt displayed its original tear.

Jasmine had tried to push the incident from her mind, deciding that she had simply been tired and that perhaps she had never mended the skirt at all. But then odd things began happening that she simply could not explain. The handkerchief would appear, as if by magic, in her hand or tucked into the bodice of her dress even when she left it behind. Or, on teary mornings such as today—and there were many of these mornings—the handkerchief would be brought to her, either through Rajah or by some invisible force. She likes to think it’s always been Rajah, taking it to her upon witnessing the five stages of grief twisting her features all at once. 

“What a good boy,” Jasmine croons to the tiger, who simply yawns in response from his place atop her dresses. “Looks like I’ll be needing this more than I’d like to admit.”

And need it she will, for the princess has spent infinite stretches of time in her bedroom, nursing wounds that will not heal no matter how hard she tries. Days and nights spent in tears have become the norm, but to the world, she will present a face of unwavering strength. She has already allowed one person to get the best of her; it will not happen again.

Jasmine surveys the books splayed in messy piles over her bed. Plucking one from the top of a random pile, she opens it to a dog-eared page, folded neatly to keep her place. She smoothes the crease, taking the slightly-damp handkerchief and folding it neatly inside the book as she skims over the words printed in black.

“The Sick Rose,” she mutters to herself, trying to find hidden meanings within the riddle. “Clever.” A blush creeps along her cheeks as she reads the poem, which speaks of a withering rose visited by an unlikely admirer. A worm, of all things, which could easily be Death in disguise.

Sometimes, Jasmine feels like she is the rose, withering away into nothing as she mourns the loss of something she never had.

Lazy afternoons and any snippets of free time she’s had lately have been spent thumbing through this book—one of many—that have been left in her chambers.

There are days when Jasmine thinks she’s gone mad, because she swears that the pile of books has grown steadily larger over the passing weeks, though there is very little which would indicate an intruder has entered her chambers. No one but the servants and her handmaid have access, and besides, why would anyone waste time slipping her books at all hours of the day? She has access to the palace library, so there would be no need.

But it doesn’t matter, because she is grateful for these tales left at her door. Grateful, in some odd way, for the face which materializes before her each and every time she loses herself in a tale of forbidden love or breathtaking poetry that beckons her forth into a temptation she dares not fall into. This secret desire for her father’s vizier will be her downfall, and, somewhere during the blurring of the years, she had come to understand rather quickly that he would become her ruin.

She had to stay away.

She had failed to stay away.

And now she is here.

A timid knock sounds at the door, dispelling any lingering thoughts of the past. “Come in.”

Dalia, her handmaid, strides inside with a kind smile gracing her lips. She wears a dress of red and gold, one reserved for days when she is to stand at Jasmine’s side as the princess receives suitors. Jasmine nearly groans at the thought, but stops herself. None of this is Dalia’s fault, she reminds herself. The woman is only fulfilling her duty.

“Shall I help you dress?” she asks, surveying Rajah soundly asleep on the clean bundle of dresses. “Or perhaps not.”

“Thank you, but I think I’m fine as I am.” Jasmine fingers the scarlet fabric of her fitted top, which shines with hundreds of tiny gold beads. She dares the visiting prince to breathe a single word regarding her choice of outfit for the day, though with a certain vizier present, she doubts she will have to do much to ensure the prince holds his tongue. One cutting look from Jafar is all it will take to have them running back home empty-handed. 

Jafar. His presence haunts her even when he is nowhere to be found. 

Chewing on her lip, Dalia asks, hesitant, “Are you certain? We could try and...salvage one of your dresses.” She looks once again to Rajah’s corner, desperate for help, but the tiger simply continues to snore. “The prince has travelled so far...”

Jasmine hears the desperation in her words. He’s travelled far, and so his potential bride-to-be must look all prim and proper to his satisfaction, to look pretty at his side. “I’m sure,” she says.

Dalia sighs. “Your father will kill me.”

“No.” Jasmine’s grin is sharp, curving micheviously over her face. “He will kill me. You worry too much.”

“If you say so. We should probably make our way downstairs. Jafar is already waiting in the throne room.”

That name causes Jasmine’s heart to still and the light to simultaneously drain from and flicker in her eyes.

Reaching a hand to place lightly on her wrist, Dalia asks, “Are you alright?”

Jasmine nods; she can’t afford to be anything else.

She closes the book of poetry, the handkerchief tucked between its pages, and allows her handmaid to walk her to the door as she contemplates where, exactly, she will go from here.

If she had the choice, it would be Jafar. It has always been Jafar. That is where she would go.

She banishes the thought from her mind as she approaches the throne room. The moment she enters, Jafar throws her a look so poisonous that it is enough to curdle her blood.


	4. Secrets and Saltwater

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After exchanging several heated words with one another in the palace throne room, Jafar and Jasmine steal away to the seaside, triggering memories which refuse to be forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not going to lie, I shed a few tears while writing this one. It’s far from perfect, but I hope you all enjoy it nonetheless!
> 
> That being said, this story has taken a turn that I really wasn’t expecting. For this reason, I may end up changing the fic’s summary, and I hope that no one ends up feeling mislead because of it. Sometimes, our stories seem to have lives of their own and go in whatever direction they please, and this fic is a perfect example of that.
> 
> As always, thank you all for your endless support. I truly wouldn’t be able to do this without you!

She gave me for my pains a world of sighs.  
She swore, in faith, ’twas strange, ’twas passing strange,  
'Twas pitiful, ’twas wondrous pitiful.  
She wished she had not heard it, yet she wished  
That heaven had made her such a man.

_Othello_, I.III

When Jasmine finally strides into the throne room at half-past eight, Jafar finds that the blood has drained completely from his face. The remnants of his wretched spirit surge from his body like a beast released from the cavernous depths of the underworld, poised to devour everything before it.

The throne room is near-empty, dotted only by the greys, reds, and golds of the guards’ uniforms. A small cluster of men stand watch in front of the staircase from which their princess has just emerged, while two more are stationed at the chamber’s front entrance, waiting to receive the morning’s guests.

Jasmine’s newest suitor had been due to arrive an hour ago, and the Sultan, upon receiving the news that his party would be late, had sent Jafar ahead to give instructions to the waiting guards. Now he is stuck here, waiting for the simpering fool of a prince who may or may not arrive. It is when he makes the decision to bark at the guards to close the gates that the princess makes an appearance.

Jafar sucks in a sharp breath as an airy fragrance of roses surrounds him, carried on fabrics of purest scarlet. It is only through his peripheral vision that he is able to discern this, for he refuses to spare even a glance at the wearer. This aroma of newly-bloomed roses, which descends upon him like a cloud before a storm, is the very same aroma which had completely unnerved him last night at the princess’ birthday celebrations.

More than her perfume, it was Jasmine’s reaction to his snapping remarks that had unsettled him the most last night. When he had suggested to her that it was marriage to him which she desired, he had been prepared for anything besides what he had received. Hurling a drink in his face, shouting at full volume before all the assembled guests... Yes, these would have been perfectly appropriate responses.

But the slight tremor ripping through her small frame and the tears kissing her cheeks like sea foam had not been one of those things.

Regret is a storm which he has come to know all too well, and in many ways, he wishes he could return to last night and pluck his words from the sky to stop them from having such a devastating effect on his princess.

_Careful_, he tells himself. _Not yours. She was never yours._

But he knows he cannot return to the past, for the damage has been done, and he is certain that Jasmine had spent the majority of her evening curled up by her rabid cat’s side, telling the beast what an awful monster he was through a endless wave of fresh tears.

This knowledge doesn’t stop him from uttering yet another biting remark, however.

“I didn’t realize we had an appointment with the whore of Babylon this morning,” Jafar mouths through gritted teeth and a painful smile as Jasmine takes her place at his side. Her handmaid, surprisingly, is nowhere to be seen, though he keeps his voice to barely a whisper for the purpose of ensuring that she is the only one who hears it. Raking his eyes over her red ensemble, he finds that controlling his breath is becoming quite the task.

Jasmine’s beauty can only be described as haunting. Covered head-to-toe in gauzy fabrics that trail behind her with the barest of movements, she is haunting in a way that forces him to his knees, each and every time.

Of course, he will never tell _her_ that. He can only imagine the laughter that will pour out of her at the confession, and he has no desire to be made out for a fool—no more than he already has.

But that _color_. It is the scarlet of the fabrics which she wears, encircling her like a crown of flame with her every step, that causes the bile to rise in his throat. Something about this particular hue catches on the edge of a memory—a memory that is so vivid that Jafar wonders if it is one of his own making, carefully woven in an attempt to heal wounds which only continue to deepen with the passage of time.

Red—it is no more than this which drives his anger this morning.

Jasmine peers at him defiantly at the sharpness of his words. Her flinch is unmistakable as her eyes land for the briefest of moments on the serpent staff gripped firmly at his side. Averting her gaze, the princess runs her hands up and down her arms—which are completely covered in red lace, he can’t help but notice—as if warning off a sudden chill.

“What _is_ your problem?” she hisses at him. One of the guards behind her coughs rather loudly, causing Jafar to turn and shoot the man a glare. This has a startling effect: the man immediately goes limp as he finds a most interesting spot on the floor to examine.

“I know that this fact escapes you,” Jafar says, drawing out each and every syllable, “but contrary to your beliefs, first impressions _do_ matter.”

Jasmine crosses her arms across her chest, her lips curving into a smile as cheap as the promises he had once made her.

He remembers those promises. He doesn’t want to, but he remembers.

“I look fine. Mind your business.”

“Oh, but this is my business, princess. You want these men vying for your attention to stop looking at you as if you’re some willing whore? Then _act_ like it.” Jafar wields the words like jagged knives, twisting sharply into places he knows will leave the deepest cut.

Staring straight ahead, Jasmine inhales evenly through her nose, the smile still pasted on her face. There is no warmth in it. “If I’m such a willing whore, then do tell me why I haven’t yet warmed your bed, my dearest vizier.”

Jafar’s heart stutters in his chest, feeling much like he has been slapped.

The truth of Jasmine’s words are a stinging blow, one that echoes with the truth of years marred by heartbreak and traitorous hope. Poison weaves its way into his voice as he says, “Has no one ever taught you to hold your tongue in a man’s presence, princess?”

Jasmine’s smile instantly vanishes, and, leaning in close, she grazes her lips against the shell of Jafar’s ear as he tilts his head sideways toward her and down to her level. The sensation of her lips ghosting across his skin in such a subtle manner nearly causes him to topple over where he stands. Her voice is deadened and frozen as she whispers, “You are not a man. You are a _coward_.”

He senses her anger, coiled tightly around his throat like a deadly viper as she storms away from the room in a flurry of scarlet. The lingering scent of roses is choking.

Without so much as a word, Jafar pushes past the dumbfounded guards stationed behind him, ignoring their pathetic protests that he should remain, as the prince could be arriving at any moment. He makes for the staircase, gliding after Jasmine in stormy silence that matches her own.

The paintings and tapestries on the walls are a blur as he follows behind the princess at a brisk pace. Even when she is out of sight, he never really loses her, for her perfume can easily be picked out from the notes of brick and dust seeping through the walls.

“Go away!” she finally barks over her shoulder.

He catches her wrist from behind, pulling her sharply to him with a simple tug of his arm. “Red is your color,” he murmurs, his shadowed gaze never once straying from hers.

The fact that she does not attempt to wrestle free from his grip does not escape him. Jasmine does not move, but she holds her breath, as if engaged in a battle of wills against her own desires, whatever those may be. She continues to hold that single breath as he twists a lock of her hair around his finger. The iron grip around her wrist loosens.

She is much too close. So close that if he were to tilt his head forward ever so slightly...

Her hands come to rest stiffly against his forearms. “Stop this,” she says in a tone that is paper-thin. “Someone will see.”

“Is that so?” Jafar ceases playing with her hair, his fingertips skimming sweetly over the curve of her jaw with a feather-light touch. “It was my belief that you enjoyed such public affairs.”

“_Stop_.”

His hand drops from her face.

“Now, if memory serves me correctly,” Jasmine begins in a saccharine tone, “I believe you called me a whore mere moments ago. Unless _your_ memory has failed you, much like your manners have.”

“Indeed I did. But even a whore is capable of remaining loyal to one man.”

Her hands go to rest on her hips, no doubt expecting yet another sour remark. He cannot blame her; he has learned to speak the language of deceit, if only to guard what remains of his splintered heart. “What are you implying?”

“You know perfectly well that riches and jewels will never be enough to satisfy you. But perhaps I may be able to tempt you in other ways...” He trails off, not trusting his voice to finish that thought. There is something in Jasmine’s gaze—a gaze that is now as dark as burning coals—that suggests to him that, should he do the unthinkable, here and now, she would undoubtedly allow him.

This is a thought which both thrills him and terrifies him all at once.

Grasping her chin in the most tender of ways, Jafar tilts her head upward so that she has no choice but to look into his face. She holds her breath again, though perhaps she had never let it go to begin with. “Tell me, do you wish to take your leave of this place for a little while?” He moves closer still, his breath ghosting over her lips as his blood thunders relentlessly in his ears. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, eerily quiet. For once in her privileged life, there appears to be no smart retort on her tongue.

“Playing dumb will not work with me, princess.” Jafar’s mouth just barely grazes hers, and when she does not move away, he is forced to release her chin and step back, not trusting himself in the slightest. “Do you think I am not aware that you are roaming the city streets at all hours of the day when you’re supposed to be elsewhere? Your daytime excursions are sloppy at best.”

A brilliant flush creeps into Jasmine’s cheeks as she regards him with a steady gaze, shock skipping over her face at this startling truth. He supposes that she would not have noticed his watchful eyes on her whenever she slipped out tower windows and skulked away into the marketplace streets.

Then again, he can’t place too much blame on her. After all, it was from him that she had learned to slip by the guards and offer her father sweet-tasting lies in order to roam freely outside these walls. Jafar had taught her well without even meaning to, and, in turn, the princess had always been a fast learner.

She bites her lip, ruminating carefully on the best course of action before saying in a trembling voice, “What do you want in return? What’s your price?”

Jafar laughs. It’s either that or cry at the injustice of it all. Of course she would think him poised to run to her father at the first opportunity. Of course. “Not much,” he says. “Only this.”

“Enough with the cryptic riddles. If you want me to warm your bed, as you sugg—“

“Do not be stupid,” he snaps, grateful that his beard conceals most of the blood rushing to his face. “Your company, princess. That will be my price. Accompany me to the seaside.”

He doesn’t know why he says it, why he asks this of her. He knows very well that Jasmine loathes his presence even more than that of her suitors, and so the fact that she nods her head in assent and without protest is a most confusing development. Confusing and infuriating.

“You promise not to say anything to my father?” Jafar actually rolls his eyes this time, causing the princess to take hold of his sleeve with one hand. Panic descends upon her features. “Do you _promise_ me?”

It is this panic, combined with her desperate, pleading tone that undoes him. “I promise.”

Unlike all the others, this is a promise he knows he will not break.

  
***

Spending the entirety of the morning shirking her responsibilities with her father’s vizier had not been part of Jasmine’s plan for the day, though it isn’t as if she has much of a choice. One misstep, and Jafar _will_ tell her father about her day trips into the city.

_Will he though?_ The voice in her head is incessant as she drags her feet across the sand. _If he’s always known, he could have told on you years ago. _She chooses to ignore this rational part of herself in favour of the part who believes that Jafar is nothing more than a monstrous, empty spectre who lives only to see her broken and laugh at her misery. It is either this or face the truth, and that is something which she has refused to do for years. She is not about to start now.

The sky is a cloudless blue as they walk along the ghostly quiet of the shore. Jasmine remains a few paces behind Jafar’s towering frame at all times, not that it matters too much. They are both dressed in a shocking white, their features hidden from view due to the swath of fabric obscuring their faces. It would not do well for anyone to recognize them, not here, not now, not ever.

And certainly not together.

Removing his sandals, Jafar takes a seat at the water’s edge, dipping his tired feet into the crystalline waters. Jasmine remains standing at his side, peering out into the infinite stretches of sea. The water is calm today.

“Sit,” Jafar instructs her, behaving in a manner that suggests they are old friends enjoying a day at the beach. “The weather is lovely today. It would be a shame for you not to enjoy it.”

The fact of the matter is, they are old friends. Or _were_, at the very least.

As she lowers herself onto the sand beside Jafar, Jasmine recalls coming here almost daily, searching for her vizier and finding him on this beach, either completely submerged in the water or sitting on the sand, allowing his mind to wander endlessly.

It’s no wonder that he always returns to the palace smelling of sea, salt, and sand; this is his constant refuge, his only freedom from the burdens which he refuses to share. 

_He sleeps with his window open too, in that seaside tower. _

Consequences are the furthest thing from her mind when she takes hold of Jafar’s hand and laces her fingers with his. A spark of something she cannot put a name to ignites the blackness of his gaze, his shoulders tensing at her sudden touch. He does not look at her. 

Without so much as a warning, Jasmine presses her mouth to his knuckles in a whisper of a kiss that causes Jafar’s breath to stutter; he is close enough that she hears it. This time, he does look at her.

Perhaps more shocking than his reaction is her own, for tears begin to fill her eyes, prodded by memories that she believed to be long forgotten.

But they are not forgotten, only sleeping and lying in wait, determined to assault her at her most vulnerable.

Jafar wrenches his hand from hers. “I thought you were afraid of people seeing. And stop that crying,” he chides. “Your tears are wasted, princess.”

Her tongue curls around a retort, but she simply does not have the will to utter it.

Just as she is about to rise to her feet, Jafar reaches toward her and produces a square piece of fabric that had been tucked neatly into a pocket of her robes. He unfolds it and dabs it carefully across her cheeks.

How had he known that she’d had it? How had he known precisely where to look?

Something about the scarlet of the handkerchief causes the various pieces of a puzzle to snap into place, and Jasmine is grasping at a truth so out of reach that it seems to retreat further into the distance the more she dwells on it.

Jafar folds the handkerchief back in on itself and presses it into her palm. “Speechless so soon? Already yearning for my touch, I see.”

Jasmine cannot seem to decide if she wishes to throw him into the sea or slap him across the face. Both are very tempting indeed.

“I think I’m fine, thanks very much.”

A slow smile twists the corners of his mouth. “Are you certain? It is alright to admit you yearn for my touch.”

“I can assure you, the only time I’d yearn for such a thing would be on the day that I’d get to choke the life from your obnoxious body.”

Jafar laughs. “Thinking of my body, are you?”

“You are insufferable!” she shouts, cheeks heated, as she bumps his shoulder with her fist. Jafar catches her hand in his, and she stills, the flush in her face deepening. Staring out across the seas, he squeezes her fingers.

She does not let go of his hand.

***

_“Jafar, stop that! You’ll ruin my clothes!”_

_Jasmine’s protests come amidst a slew of breathless giggles, her delighted screams piercing the afternoon air as Jafar lifts her into his arms and over his shoulder. His laughter booming above the roar of the waves, he playfully lowers her body into the sea before lifting her up at the final moment, just before the water can soak into her robes._

_“Are you allergic to fun, princess?” he calls over the crashing of the waves against the sand. “Surely you could use some fun in your life, hm?” Jasmine’s high-pitched giggles are his only answer, her fingers digging into his shoulders as he makes a show of dipping her back into the water. This time, however, Jasmine, takes him down with her, tugging forcefully at his sleeves as they both collapse into the sea, choking on saltwater and secrets meant for only the two of them._

_“You are infuriating,” Jafar says, splashing water in Jasmine’s general direction. She mimics him, then takes him by the hand and pulls him on top of her as she lies back on the sand. They are both completely drenched._

_“Promise me something,” Jasmine murmurs, her arms encircling Jafar’s shoulders as she presses her mouth against his._

_“Anything, my princess.” He closes his eyes, savouring her kiss—a kiss tasting of saltwater and faraway dreams._

_“Promise me that we’ll always be together. No matter what happens, no matter what may separate us, we’ll always find our way back to one another. Promise me Jafar.”_

_Jafar lifts his head, and, meeting her gaze, brushes his lips against her forehead. He takes her face into his hands, ghosting his fingers over her jaw, saying, “I promise, Jasmine.”_

_He kisses her once more, knowing that his words are as hallow and blackened as his own heart._


	5. Mistake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER HAS BEEN DELETED AND RE-WRITTEN. Please see the next chapter, “Vizier of Errors,” for the re-written and updated version.

THIS CHAPTER HAS BEEN DELETED AND RE-WRITTEN. Please see the next chapter, “Vizier of Errors,” for the re-written and updated version.


	6. Vizier of Errors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a conversation with the Sultan, Jafar unexpectedly runs into Jasmine in the palace courtyard, leaving him with more questions than answers. Meanwhile, Jasmine lays awake at night, her mind fixated on a certain vizier. She is propelled to make a choice that she could not have possibly foreseen...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize it’s been over a month since I last updated, and I apologize for making you all wait for so long! After reading the feedback I received on the last chapter, I decided to rewrite it, and I can honestly say that the rewritten version is something that I’m proud of. That being said, you’ll notice that I kept some of the original content from Chapter 5, but changed the courtyard scene with Jafar and Jasmine. I added a lot more as well, making this chapter just over 5k words... I hope you all enjoy it! At some point, I may go back and delete Chapter 5 (though I’d hate to lose all those wonderful comments), but that will likely be when the story is finished. Once again, thank you for all the love and support on this story. I wouldn’t be able to do it without all of you.

_“Ouch!”_

_Jafar watches as the princess brings her lips to the cut ripping across her palm. He had warned her—several times, in fact—to leave the roses in the garden alone, and as always, she had refused to listen and had instead done whatever she saw fit._

_“Come, let me see.” Jafar takes her hand in his, inspecting the cut with the utmost care. It’s not deep, but the palace roses are large and the thorns sharper. He motions toward the stone fountain in the center of the garden, and the princess sits before it as instructed. Jafar lowers himself beside her._

_“It’s alright,” Jasmine says. “It’s not serious.” She makes a failed attempt to slip her hand out of his, but Jafar’s grip is firm. The message is clear._

_Setting down his staff by his feet, he produces a scarlet piece of fabric folded neatly from within his robes. He unfolds it, laying the handkerchief flat on his lap with his free hand as he begins to bind the princess’ wound._

_Wrapped around Jasmine’s hand, the handkerchief seems to glow momentarily in the dying afternoon light, enveloping the cut in invisible warmth. She does not yet know it, but the cut will have vanished by morning._

_“Thank you,” she says, her cheeks flushed. “But you didn’t have to. I promise I’ll return it as soon as possible.”_

_“No need,” Jafar says. “Think of it as a gift.”_

_“What kind of gift?”_

_“The gift of magic.” Jafar winks at her, and Jasmine quickly looks away, turning her gaze towards the endless flowers blooming in the garden._

_“And what kind of magic might that be?”_

_Jafar laughs, low and quiet. “So many questions.” He takes her hand, the one bound by the handkerchief, and guides it to rest against his chest, right above his fluttering heart. “Perhaps if you are patient, you will find out.”_

***

When speaking the language of deceit, lies have always been Jafar's preferred flavor.

Upon his immediate return from the seaside, his first order of business had been to see to the matter of Jasmine’s father and explain why, exactly, his vizier had not been present to greet the latest irritation to descend upon the kingdom. Jafar had spun a fantastic tale—a tale that only he would have been capable of weaving—that had involved him finding the princess roaming the halls sick with fever. Throughout this grandiose retelling, Jafar had made certain to place particular emphasis on his fetching of the palace handmaid the moment he had realized something was amiss.

Of course, no such thing had occurred, and he continues to thank the gods for this one small mercy—the mercy of being able to spit lies whenever it so pleases him and have no one question his authority. 

Unfortunately for Jafar, there still remains one other problem to contend with—a problem which takes the shape of a certain raven-haired princess who is armed with a smart tongue and a touch forged of sin and stardust. The crashing of the waves against the shore, the rose-laced fragrance of her hair, the brief touch of her lips against his hand.

Not even his sorcery can save him now.

Why had she done it? Agreeing to the outing in the first place—that he could understand. After all, fear of her father rules supreme above all else despite how much she loves him.

Which begs the question of _why_. Why sit there by his side at the water's edge, her fingers laced comfortably in his as if she had no other care in the world? What does she want from him? People have never dared venture close to him unless there was something he could offer, and even then Jafar was their final option among a sea of curdling desperation. 

So what is it then? What does she want? He has every intention of uncovering her secrets, no matter what it takes. He will not allow her to pull the strings, not this time. 

Jafar snaps himself out of his thoughts long enough to remember that he is sitting across from the Sultan. He can't recall if Hamed had asked him a question, but the man speaks, leading him to the assumption that he has already answered. That he can't even bring himself to be present for one meagre conversation is telling.

"How is this suitor business unfolding, if I may ask?" This is the most pressing matter for Jafar, one that has been plaguing him for infinite stretches of time. He has been able to gleam little from the painstakingly-painted puppets which roam the palace grounds, and not even his most trusted guards have been able to acquire even a scrap of information. He does not necessarily wish to have an answer, but he knows that he must, if only to put his mind at ease, whatever that may resemble. His own reaction to whatever news Hamed will reveal shall give him some indication on how to proceed.

Shadows dance across Hamed's face, his chin resting in both his hands. All manner of papers and books and trinkets are arranged haphazardly on the desk before him. He is a window to a man utterly defeated. "Not well, I'm afraid." He sighs, sitting up as straight as he can manage despite his exhaustion. "I do not think it would have gone any better had you and my daughter been present. No offense meant," he quickly adds.

His lips thinning and stretching into a poor attempt at a smile, Jafar says, "None taken, my Sultan. Do you think it will be long before the wedding? I have no doubt that the time must be nearing for the princess to make a choice." The words taste of poison and shattered glass, the edges cutting deeper than he'd like to admit.

He is no fool, and because he is no fool, he knows that the royal wedding is near. There is no postponing it any longer, no matter how much the princess may wish this to be so.

For the briefest of moments, Jafar foolishly allows himself to imagine taking the place of the prince fated to marry Jasmine. He envisions himself at her side, taking her hand in his and pledging promises that would make those paltry suitors resemble sheep dung at the altar. He would offer her the world, and he would deliver to her those promises, remaining by her side and caring for her and loving her and—

"To be honest with you Jafar, I worry she will not come to any decision," Hamed says, putting an abrupt halt to Jafar's nonsensical fantasies. "At this rate, we'll be running out of kingdoms to forge alliances with, which can only mean..." He needs not say anymore, for Jafar knows precisely what his unspoken words point to. His blood ices over as he reads the silence in what Hamed refuses to say out loud.

"I am certain you will make a wise choice," Jafar tells him through candy-coated words which lay rotten underneath. "The princess is lucky to have such a caring father who takes her well-being into consideration. She should be proud."

Hamed says no more on his daughter's soon-to-be-wedding and instead moves to other matters. Jafar is barely present at this point, though he catches snippets of "increased security" and "lowering crime" as he attempts to drag himself through this final stretch of conversation.

When he is finally dismissed from the Sultan's study, Jafar nearly breaks into a run at his haste in making himself scarce as quickly as possible. Mind wandering, he strides sharply into a hall which connects to the courtyard, and with it, offering a full view of the swath of flora in the distance and the dimming sun beating down on the grounds. The air is crisp and humid, carrying with it hope that he cannot find within himself to grasp.

A flash of brilliant violet flickers across the marble floors, vanishing immediately behind a pillar overlooking the courtyard. Jafar grips his staff, certain that he is nowhere near senile and that he has, in fact, witnessed that spark of color on this plane of existence.

Curious, he approaches the pillar, halting immediately as he is about to disappear behind it. The siren's song of his own magic calls to him, lulling him closer and closer into a temptation that he so desperately seeks to avoid.

He recognizes that magic, and, without a doubt, knows that it is the very same magic which he had used to enchant the princess' handkerchief several years ago.

Which can only mean one thing.

Jasmine's head emerges from behind the pillar, her eyes wide and warm as she fixes him with a stare that is much too intimate for his liking. Her hand reaches out, tugging at his sleeve, and they are now both behind the pillar, completely hidden from view. Jafar is an empty shell of a man, having suddenly forgotten both his manners and any words resembling coherent thought. The magic from the handkerchief calls out to him; it must be somewhere on her person.

For the longest moment, they simply stare at one another, caught in a storm that neither could have possibly predicated. "Yes?" Jafar finally spits at her. He sounds as if he has just been rudely awoken from a deep sleep. "Can I help you, princess? Surely you have better things to do than to..." He bites his tongue, noting the look in her eyes that suggests she is about to drop a revelation that will completely uproot everything he has come to know. Something skims across the surface of those umber-colored eyes, something that resembles an urgent question or an unspoken promise of an agreement yet to be honored.

And then, before Jafar can utter yet another empty threat, Jasmine looks to the ground before asking almost shyly, “So, what did you tell him?”

It takes Jafar a moment to pinpoint whom, exactly, she is referring to. He recalls the morning spent at the seaside and the open palace gates, his insides twisting at the significance of it all. “Your father, you mean? Nothing but the truth,” he says coolly.

Sensing the double-meaning in his words, Jasmine’s face is forced upwards, her glassy stare meeting his. Jafar squints, not trusting himself to decipher the uncertainty laid bare on the princess' face. Since when has she ever been uncertain about anything?

“Nothing but the truth,” Jasmine repeats, her voice standing on shaky foundations. 

“Oh, not _that_ truth,” Jafar amends, his tone slick with teasing. “That is, unless you wish for your father to know that you have been spending an unorthodox amount of time cozying up to his vizier.” The princess’ face heats. “Of course, that too can be arranged if you so wish.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Jasmine snaps. “I need to know exactly what you told him. I need—“

Jafar skims his fingertips over the curve of her cheek, thereby putting a stop to the princess’ incessant babbling. “Calm yourself.” His tone is unusually kind for a man who thrives on hurling sharp words and witty insults. "I told your father that you had fallen ill, and that I had gone to find your handmaid to tend to you. As far as he is concerned, that was the only reason for your absence this morning.” Jasmine looses the breath she had been holding. “I will keep your secret, among others.”

She ignores that final quip, wresting herself away from his touch and avoiding the hunger of his gaze at all costs. Even her movements, careful as they are, suggest that she has every intention of evading him, no matter what it takes.

“Then I have no other business here,” she says with finality as she makes to leave the courtyard.

“Are you certain?” Jafar calls after her, tone wry. “Because if you ask me, when a woman drags a man behind a pillar completely hidden from view, she is looking to do much more than simply converse about her clandestine affairs.” 

Jasmine’s face reddens for the second time in minutes. “You will watch your tongue,” she spits, the threat devoid of any true danger.

Lowering his voice, Jafar says, “Perhaps you would prefer it if I did not.” He does not get to see her expression, for the princess departs the moment he unleashes the words into the world. In some ways, he is thankful for this. 

Later. He will press her for further answers later.

"Not to intrude, my vizier, but may I offer a suggestion?”

He turns, somehow expecting to see the palace guards despite the high-pitched, airy tone that has just addressed him. Instead, he sees Dalia, the princess’ handmaid, standing by the entrance to the courtyard with a smile tugging at her lips and fabrics of silver and cream draped over her figure. His heartbeat slows, though he cannot say he is pleased. He did not expect to find himself entertaining the palace riff-raff at the end of the day.

Jafar offers her a glare that would have made anyone else cower. But not this woman. “May I help you, or shall I call upon the guards to escort you back into the palace? It seems you have lost your way.”

Dalia’s smile remains in place, constant as ever, her eyes darting to the pillar where he and the princess had just exchanged words. “Next time, you may wish to be more discreet about what you do in full view of the kingdom. _I_ do not care what you do, but others might.”

Jafar's veins turn to ice in an instant. “I do not believe I have ever once asked for your opinion. If you would like to continue being employed here, I highly suggest you stay silent and complete the job with which you have been tasked.” Dalia's jovial facade slips slightly, no doubt a result of this reminder. Her absence at the princess' side earlier in the day had not gone unnoticed. Any fool who had eyes would have seen the empty space behind the Jasmine.

There is a different issue at hand, however. If Dalia is here, interrogating him like some common criminal, then she must know something. The ignorant would not dare waste their time with him. “What will it cost to buy your silence?” he utters through gritted teeth.

“Oh, I am not looking to be bought,” Dalia says sweetly, her hands folded neatly against the fabric of her dress. “I am looking to alert you to the fact that you do not appear as inconspicuous as you think you do, my dearest vizier.” Jafar’s face is blank, but his insides are churning as though a storm is about to descend. “If it is her heart you are after, perhaps you are looking in all the wrong places.”

“Do not presume to speak on things that you know nothing about.”

Dalia turns, making for the palace doors, saying, “And yet, it seems I know more than you. Be careful and be aware. That is all I will leave you with.”

She does not utter another word as she disappears through the ornate doors, leaving Jafar to contend with the fact that he may have yet another problem on his hands that rivals that of the princess' soon-to-be-betrothal.

***

It is three in the morning, and Princess Jasmine twists and turns restlessly in her bed, sleep eluding her for the third night in a row. Ordinarily, she would be reaching for the piles of books strewn messily about the floor, reading well into the morning until it was time to greet the day. But tonight—tonight she cannot even bring herself to do that.

Perhaps it had been foolish of her to approach Jafar as she had in the courtyard. 

No, it had been. It had been unmistakably foolish. 

But she had to know. Had to know whether it was her imagination, whether it was her mind playing tricks on her that caused her skin to heat whenever he was near and her heart to speed up a hundred fold whenever he so much as spared her the tiniest of glances. She had to know if it was all in her head, if her feelings were nothing more than a creation of her own mind. 

They weren't.

Because when she had felt his fingertips skimming over her face—when his skin touched hers, she had felt that touch in every crevice of her body, calling out to the most secretive, deepest part of herself that she would allow no one to see.

No one, not even him.

Except she feels something for Jafar, something powerful and impossible and dark and _wrong_. Because it is wrong, but worse than that, she has always felt it, and it absolutely terrifies her in every way possible.

She had wanted to say so much more to him in that courtyard. An inexplicable anxiety had indeed gnawed at her bones when she had asked him about her father, but it had not been that which had driven her to pull him behind that pillar. She had almost kissed him—_almost_—and she is not sure whether to be glad or sad that she had not done it.

She closes her eyes, seeing nothing but those shadowed eyes in the darkness. The image does not disappear when she opens them, and she inwardly chides herself for not acting. Perhaps it had been for the best. If someone had seen them... She doesn't want to think about what could have happened if someone had seen.

Heat blooms between her thighs as her mind gives shape to visions of his body pressed against hers, of the slight scrape of his beard against her palms as she smoothes them over his skin. She imagines herself on her knees before him, gripping his hips, treating him like the king she knows him to be...

_Stop_, whispers the more rational part of herself. _Stop this nonsense. These are nothing but superficial, childish fantasies. This can never be. You've never even been with a man. You wouldn't know the first thing to do._

And even though it cannot be, Jasmine's mind continues to spin lovingly-crafted fantasies of her favored vizier, of his haunting kiss, of his twisted, barely-there smiles. It is this last item which finally prompts her to make yet another foolish decision. It will certainly not be the last.

She finds the seaside tower, climbing the steps two by two as she always has. The tower boasts no enchantments, no manner of protection, and she knows without a doubt that this is what Jafar has intended from the start. After so many years contending with their tattered relationship, she had falsely assumed that he would enchant the tower to ensure that all who attempted to gain access would be prevented from doing so. Then again, the lack of protection could be due to the fact that he did not foresee anyone foolish enough to broach the threshold. If that is the case, he has been sorely mistaken.

His sorcery has always been an unspoken secret between them. She had never allowed him to know that she knew, and he had said nothing indicating that he was aware that she knew his secret. She prefers that it remains this way.

Her chest heaving from the effort of climbing those cumbersome stairs, Jasmine pauses at the door to his chambers, her fingers gripping the doorframe tightly. A sense of peace comes upon her as she peers into the room that looks completely untouched, even after so many years. A golden orrery takes up space in the center of the room, the sparkling metal reflecting the light from the lit torches. She wonders what Jafar uses it for. Does he look at it, dreaming of faraway times and places that are no longer within his reach? Somehow, he does not strike her as that type of man. 

Her footsteps are barely audible against the softness of the carpet as she wades further into the room. Teal and gold streak across her vision, blanketing the walls in the most luxurious paper which accents the few ornate pieces of furniture arranged meticulously around the space. Books upon books are stacked neatly on the table which she remembers as Jafar's workspace. Books, too, are crammed into the elaborate bookcases by the walls, along with several scrolls, vials, and jars. Some teem with liquids in several brilliant colors, while others stand empty.

Everything in this room, from the books to the paper on the walls, are steeped in magic. She knows this to be true, even if she cannot see it with her own eyes.

Reaching for the orrery, Jasmine stretches out her arm and runs her fingertips over the cool metal, feeling the chill beneath her skin. Though she is alone in the room (or it appears to be so), she senses an inescapable presence precisely at the moment in which she notices Jafar's serpent staff perched by the window. Its eyes hold a red glow which deepens the longer she stares. What is it doing here? He is never seen without his staff, unless—

The ruby eyes of the serpent seem to ignite a winding path of memories, bitterly broken and trampled on by time’s iron fists. Dirt-streaked paths, pretty trinkets, a figure clothed in tattered robes. Each and every image flashes through her mind one after another with no indication of coming to an end. The images come from nowhere, simultaneously foreign and familiar in a way that suggests she has been here many times before. But the man in the weathered robes...

She cannot see his face. For whatever reason, the memory refuses to yield even this.

Her vision is bathed in nothing but scarlet—the light from the staff—and the blurred image of a man retreating further and further away from her. 

“May I assist you?” The voice comes from behind, caressing her ear in an oil-slicked confection. The light from the staff vanishes. 

Jasmine does not turn around. The sharp tang of salt and sand assault her nose, mixed with something else—something bitter and putrid yet somehow still pleasant.

_Alcohol_, she realizes. He's been drinking. How wrong did things go today that he had to indulge in a cup of wine or two or three?

Despite this, Jasmine's blood thunders relentlessly in her ears, and if she turns now, she knows that what she will see shall frighten her away from the very thing she has come to claim. The warmth between her thighs has not yet ceased.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Jasmine stammers, offering him only a half-truth. 

Jafar’s presence is all darkness and haze, and though she cannot see him, she senses his towering frame behind her, his gaze seeing right through her and somewhere beyond. His fingers skim over her clothed hips, and she can feel the heat of him through her nightgown. “Interesting that you choose to haunt this tower when you have so many other viable options. Was the courtyard not amusing enough for you, princess? Now, what could I possibly do for you that others cannot?” He breathes this last statement directly against the shell of her ear, and whether or not he knows the effect he has on her, he makes no indication of it. 

He is not drunk. This she is certain of. The surety of his words are a testament to that.

Having very little time upon which to make a decision, Jasmine understands that the longer she dawdles, the more time Jafar will have to change his mind and set the guards on her with a mere snap of his fingers. If he chooses to reveal that she has come here without permission, it will be her word against that of a man who has the entirety of the kingdom beneath his thumb.

Jafar takes hold of her wrist, yanking her to face him. His expression resembles stone, but his eyes—his eyes hold the tiniest sliver of something. Hope? Is that it? “I shall make this very simple for you, princess. Either speak up or get out.” The combination of alcohol lingering on his breath and the salt sticking to his skin is overwhelming.

It's either now or never. She either does what she's come to do, or she admits defeat and puts him from her mind for the rest of her life. Her choices are two. 

She wants the truth, _must_ have the truth, whatever it may be.

With shaking fingers, Jasmine takes hold of Jafar’s hand, causing a spark to ignite in his shadowed eyes. What she is about to do is insane, so incredibly insane that her head spins at the thought.

Before her mind has time to catch up with her ludicrous desires, she guides his hand precisely where she wants it: beneath the silk of her nightgown and right between her thighs.

She does not know how to describe the expression on his face, but it is as if the heavens have sucked the air from the earth, reducing him to a choking, disbelieving mess. His mouth opens and closes several times, but no sound escapes him. She does not blame him in the least; if he's thinking that she's taken leave of all her senses, he would be correct.

And yet.

The sensation of his palm pressing firmly against her bare flesh makes her wish she could throw her head back and offer this man everything she possesses. Because in this moment, she would truly give to him the world. 

His voice hard, Jafar says, “You have precisely ten seconds to leave this room or you shall have regrets that even I will not be able to erase.” His threat is very real—this she knows to be a fact—but he does not remove his hand from between her thighs. She begins to count silently backwards from ten.

“Five seconds, princess.” His voice is brittle, as if he is finally losing his very thin grip on reality. He peers at her through the dazed eyes of a drunk and a madman combined as he drops his hand from beneath her nightgown, choosing instead to rest it low on her hip. Jasmine nearly whimpers at the loss of his touch. 

The voice in her head reaches one, and the door through which she’d entered slams shut. The eyes of the serpent staff perched by the window momentarily glow red. 

“Answer my question,” Jafar says, voice hard. “Why have you come here?”

For a moment, Jasmine isn’t sure how to answer. She finally settles on something that somewhat resembles the truth, but when the words leave her mouth, they feel like the words of a child who simply does not know any better. “I wanted to see you,” is all she says. 

Jafar laughs; it contains no traces of humor. “You wanted to see me,” he repeats. “A most fascinating tale when you consider the fact that you would dance on my grave, should it come to that.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I wanted to see you. Isn’t that enough?”

“Do you take me for a fool, princess?" Jafar thunders. His voice is violence and wrath and misery tangled into one neatly-wrapped box. "Do you think that I am unaware that your father expects you to choose a suitor soon?”

Jasmine's gaze takes on a faraway look. “I don’t understand what you mean."

“I see what this is about," Jafar continues, acting as if she has not spoken. "You truly believe that you can solicit me for favors." Jasmine flinches. He thinks that—? No. How could he possibly think— "Listen well, _princess_. Your wiles may fool everyone else in this palace, but they will not fool me. We have played this game once before, if you recall, and you have lost. We have both lost, and I will not allow you to take me for a fool again. I learned my lesson. It is time that you do the same."

Jasmine takes several steps back, her mouth falling open at what she has just heard. For a moment, nothing exists outside of this room. There are no suitors coming to seek her hand, no father who insists she marry as soon as possible, no rules or expectations. There exists nothing and no one but her and the wretched man standing before her. She wants to cry, to hit him, to scream—scream until she no longer has a voice. How can he possibly believe something so ludicrous? For all his years of studying, for all his logic, where is it now?

Jasmine's laugh is bitter, her face hot and vision blurred. "You stupid bastard," she snarls. "You are so _stupid_. You truly think that I would come here, that I would—that I would humiliate myself in this way to gain _favors_ from you?"

Her voice is so shrill that she is surprised Jafar has been able to retain his composure for this long. "I would think that if I was a woman in your position, I would indeed grovel at the knees of the second-most powerful man in the kingdom in a bid to avoid my fate."

This is not happening. It cannot be happening.

Jasmine's chest tightens, the room transforming into a blur of color and barely-there shapes. "I am not here to fuck you in exchange for you to convince my father to delay the wedding."

There it is. The words sound even worse when said out loud. Jafar's mouth hangs open; he is likely more stunned than she is.

He closes his eyes and turns away from her. "Get out."

"You can't just tell me to—“

A gust of wind, seemingly from nowhere, forces the tower door to burst open. Whether it comes from the open window or from the traces of magic blanketing the room, it matters not. Jafar’s wrath is undeniable. “I said, _get out_.” His voice is thunderous and unlike anything she had ever heard before. At least, coming from him. She flinches at the sound.

“I would have done anything for you, you know,” Jasmine says as she makes for the door, tears blurring her vision. This is the first time she has made any reference whatsoever to the past that she and Jafar had once shared. Until now, she had simply pretended that it had never existed. She wishes she could go on doing much of the same. “I still would do anything for you, and I am an utter fool for it.”

She hurtles past him, taking the stairs not two by two, but at a complete run. She has never run from safety before.

But this is not safety. It is rejection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had meant to mention this sooner, but the handkerchief is a reference to the play “Othello” by William Shakespeare. In the play, Othello gives the handkerchief to Desdemona (his wife) as a gift representing his love for her. Later in the play, Desdemona loses the handkerchief, which sparks Othello’s jealousy that she may be cheating on him. According to Othello, the handkerchief contains magic and will guarantee the longevity of a relationship as long as it’s not lost. Just thought I’d bring this up for those of you that weren’t sure what the handkerchief was all about!


	7. A Man's Worth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unable to bear the weight of the emotions Jasmine has awakened in him, Jafar attempts to find some refuge in the city's centre. What he finds instead is a reminder of his past, and later, a princess who thirsts for his blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been months since my last update, and I'm so sorry for not doing so sooner. Life has been getting in the way lately, but I love this story so much that I don't think I'll ever be giving up on it. I think I may need to add a few more chapters to it as well, but we'll see how things go. For those of you that are still reading, thank you for your support and endless patience. I wouldn't be able to do this without you. I hope you enjoy this one!

The sun bleeds red and gold across the horizon, painting the skies in brilliant hues of copper and carmine and crimson. It _is_ rather lovely, and a sight which he would ordinarily stop to admire under normal circumstances. But these are not normal circumstances, and not for a moment does he believe that anything about his existence will be normal again. 

Jafar has come to realize that he is, in fact, an idiot. Nothing could have prepared him for this, not the endless wine floating to and from his rooms like a fountain of abundance, nor the choking scent of roses that twists his insides, sticking to him like a nightmare come knocking.

He’s been drinking for the past several days in a failing bid to forget what cannot be forgotten. He and alcohol have never been the best of friends, but as it stands, his chalice will continue to accompany him for as long as it takes for this madness within him to subside. He has not seen anyone or anything but the bottom of a wine decanter for some time now. The wine chases the grief away, numbing the cracks in his heart and acting as a balm to his broken armour. 

Armour which he had allowed the princess to see in a fleeting moment of weakness. A moment which had resulted in pain and loss. A moment that had been—would have been—a mistake.

Looking to the west, Jafar absorbs the fading sunlight bathing his tower room in warmth that he cannot feel. 

A knock sounds at the door, loud and insistent and full of implications. The sound reverberates through the room, and Jafar swears that he can see the vials and spell books on his desk rattling in response. He silently curses himself for removing the magical wards which have always protected his one and only refuge. Removing them had been for one purpose, and he discovered much too late that there had never been a need. 

“I need to speak with you.” Dalia’s airy voice floats through from the other side. He stills by the window, already imagining the wretched woman’s accusatory glare. Her being tucked out of view in no way conceals the utter contempt seeping from her voice.

“Please,” she says, her voice turning firm and frantic. “This is important. It can’t wait. If you’re in there, I must speak with you at once.”

Feigning deafness, Jafar turns to the window. The sea is calm today, the waves rolling gently to the shore. If only the current state of his emotions were a reflection of the sea.

“Grand Vizer!” Dalia shouts. “Please, I am begging.”

Jafar climbs onto the window sill, his body swathed in the garb of a thief. A sigh escapes him, and, closing his eyes against the dying light of the day, allows himself to fall face-first towards the ground. 

He will deal with the handmaiden later. For now, he requires a diversion.

He falls quickly, though it is more of a controlled leap than a true fall. His body twists in the air, thoughts scattered and splintering into fragments he can barely make sense of. Opening his eyes, he spies a streak of turquoise sprinting across the grounds, his heart tearing like paper at the sight. He blinks, and the blue speck is gone, nothing more than a figment of his imagination that his longing wished into being.

The memory of Jasmine’s hand taking his and guiding him between her thighs forces his very bones to rattle. There is nothing in the world that could put a halt to his body’s dizzying response to the memory. A memory which has been the source of his comfort while simultaneously destroying him.

He had rejected her in the worst way possible, and for what? For the satisfaction of knowing that he would—could—hurt her? It had not been worth it in the end. 

When he hits the ground, softly landing on his feet and crouched low like a cat, Jafar sprints for the city centre. The humidity has lessened, turning instead into a light haze which curls around the buildings like vines. With the dying light, the vendors have already packed up their wares.

Jafar runs, not knowing what he’s looking for, or what he’s running from. He knows only that he must run. Run to breathe.

That’s what echoes through him.

Run to breathe.

_ Run. _

Here, dressed in this manner and ducking between buildings like nothing more than a speck of dust, he is safe, because no one gives a damn. He is safe from the burden of responsibility which is sometimes too much to bear. Safe from prying eyes that make silent demands of him, that dictate what he should do, how he should dress, and whom he is to associate with. 

But not here. Here he is free. 

Occupying the position of Grand Vizier has its merits, but it is not freedom. It is just as much of a cage as his past is, the past that Jasmine must never know about. This—his life before now—this is why he has pushed her away, then and now. 

Securing his hood over his head, he wanders through the restricted districts of the city where only the most depraved or desperate conduct their daily business. Having sent guards here on a near-daily basis, Jafar knows this place well. And, knowing it well, he knows that it is here where every law in Agrabah is broken.

He has lived in such a place before. In a kingdom called Shirabad, his birthplace, which has long been reduced to rubble. Living among filth and squalor, he understands the comings and goings of the people who reside here, understands why they do what they do. Poverty always did breed desperation. 

He knows this better than anyone, and because of this, knows that his memories of Shirabad will haunt him until the day he dies. 

“Pardon me, Sir. I noticed you’ve been waiting several minutes. My apologies for the wait. How may I assist you?”

His head snapping up, Jafar is met with a young man who appears no older than twenty years of age. He is dressed decently enough in cream-coloured robes that fit him well, though there is a familiar sadness in his smile that draws Jafar’s attention. He looks to the building behind them, taking note of the chipped periwinkle sign with the words “The Blue Door” painted in peeling white letters. There is nothing subtle about the establishment, and one glance at the portraits of ridiculously beautiful men and women plastered to the sides of the building tells him all he needs to know. Panic squeezes against his chest.

It’s a _brothel_**. **

The gods truly have a wicked sense of humour.

Gripping his hood tight against his face, Jafar asks, “What services do you offer, boy?” His mouth is dry even as he chokes the words from his throat.

These words were spoken to him daily, once upon a time. And, hearing them now, falling softly off his own tongue, they stir memories and emotions which were long meant to be forgotten.

The young man’s cheeks flush at the question, though he stands tall and responds with confidence. “I’m afraid I can’t recall all our services from memory, but we do have a list posted inside.” He clears his throat, staring intently at the ground. “But it’s the rule that customers may request nearly anything they desire.” He tries to inject as much coyness as he can muster into this part of his clearly-rehearsed speech, but the intended effect falls flat. Jafar’s brows knit together, his panic replaced by pity.

What he would have given for someone like himself to offer him a chance during months of bleakness and depression. 

Which is precisely why he reaches inside his robes, produces a small satchel of gold coins, and without thinking, tosses it at the boy.

“What’s this?” the boy squeaks, catching the satchel while simultaneously attempting to return it to Jafar. “I can’t take this. If you would like, we can—“

“No.” Jafar’s voice is kind, but firm. “Keep it. You now possess more than enough gold to leave this place and never return, and I highly suggest you take advantage of the opportunity.”

“I can’t,” the boy pleads, refusing to heed Jafar’s words. He looks as if the satchel in his hands is a weapon about to be turned on him. “I’ll get into into trouble. If you really want to give this to me, at the very least allow me to service you. I can’t just—“

Jafar allows his hood to slip slightly off his head, allowing the poor boy to catch a glimpse—a true glimpse—of the man who will be his saving grace, should he allow it.

A small whimper escapes the boy as he lowers his gaze. He scrambles to his knees, dropping the satchel in the process. “Grand Vizier, please forgive me. I beg for mercy. I didn’t know.” His voice shakes, fear reigning supreme above all else.

Jafar doesn’t know what breaks his heart more; the boy’s predicament, or the fact that every single person in this hellhole of a kingdom views him as an irredeemable monster. How then, can the woman he loves possibly ever see him as anything but?

“Get up,” Jafar murmurs in exasperation. He tugs the hood back up, obscuring most of his face. “Take the gold and go live your life.”

***

At precisely the moment in which he returns to the palace, Jafar can’t help but notice an increased amount of activity that certainly did not exist when he left at sunset. Naturally, Dalia is lingering, huddled in conversation with servants and shooting withering looks in his direction at every possible opportunity. He hasn’t forgotten her pounding at his door, and apparently neither has she.

At best, there must be over fifty servants in the dining hall alone. They assist one another in carrying furniture into the hall from the gardens, arranging it in neat rows with a narrow space carved out in the centre, a space designed for no more than two people to stand in. Lush banners in gold, white, and silver are draped neatly over the windows and tumble down the wall. Luxurious paper flowers, printed with bright patterns, are arranged intricately on large tables set by the room’s west side. The guards—_Jafar’s_ guards—stand watch at each of the entrances and exits. They spare him no acknowledgement but a single tilt of their chins. No one lowers their gaze as they normally would when he walks into a room. Everyone is basking in an invisible joy that he cannot seem to grasp.

_ What in the gods’ name is happening?  _

Jafar senses his magic calling to him at precisely the moment in which the great double-doors of the hall burst open, revealing a princess crowned in wrath and vengeance. 

He hears her roar before she strides inside, taking large, purposeful steps towards him. Because she _is_ striding towards him if the direction of her gaze is any indication. Their eyes collide from across the room, Jasmine’s face filled with rage and her tongue thirsting for blood. 

The servants momentarily halt their work, shooting nervous glances in the direction of their princess. Even the guards take on a fighting stance, though Jafar can’t say whether it’s because they believe Jasmine will slit his throat in front of all who are assembled, or because they feel he might murder the princess instead. 

“And what do we owe this pleasure, princess?” Despite the fact that he is fighting to maintain his composure, Jafar’s voice is smooth as silk. 

And yet, Jasmine’s anger turns him cold. She never displays her emotions publicly, always preferring to hold her head up high with grace and present a mask of patience and logic when dealing with matters requiring a certain sensitivity. 

Jafar can recall only one other moment in which Jasmine had looked at him in the manner she’s looking at him now. It had been the moment which caused the end of their friendship—and perhaps more—and it tastes of the bitterest poison.

There is nothing, absolutely nothing in this mausoleum of a palace that compares to bearing witness to the rage tinting the face of the woman he loves more than life itself. 

Because he does love her. He loves her and it _will_ kill him.

Jasmine’s fists are balled tightly at her side like a coiled spring as she comes to stand before him. She wears deep plum today, her dark hair falling gracefully over her shoulders and crowning her with a beauty that is all shadows and starlight. A cloud of roses fills the space with her perfume.

Jafar waits, his fingers tightly gripping his staff as he maintains a mask of cool indifference. His mouth quirks into the beginnings of a smile, taunting and teasing. No one plays the game of courtly intrigue better than he.

Jasmine looks about ready to slit his throat from ear to ear and feed his rotting corpse to her flea-ridden cat.

“You did this.” She breathes the words through clenched teeth, her tiny frame shaking from the fury which she cannot hide. Jafar spares a glance to the servants, and they quickly feign busyness. 

Taking a measured half-step towards her, Jasmine tenses at once, ready to strike like a creature being hunted. Jafar purposefully tilts his head in a mocking gesture. “Forgive me for not having the slightest idea what you are referring to. I’m afraid you’ll have to elaborate.” 

“Fascinating,” Jasmine says, her hands resting on her hips, her eyes veiled in uncontrollable fury. “Then my father chose a husband for me of his own accord, did he?”

It is here where Jafar’s body crumbles to dust, certain that he has misheard, certain that there is a misunderstanding here that has yet to be addressed. Though he looks at no one but Jasmine, he can feel every person in the room going motionless at once, a hushed murmur sweeping through the dining hall. Apparently, this new piece of information had been common knowledge to no one until this very moment.

The servants milling about in packs. The increased security. The lavish decorations. The arrangement of the furniture. It all makes sense as it all begins to unravel.

But did they _know_? Did the servants know that they were preparing for a—for a—

No.

It can’t be. There _must_ be a misunderstanding. Because otherwise, what reason could Hamed possibly have for choosing a suitor this quickly, and without consulting his most trusted men? Jafar licks his lips, his chest tight from lack of air. He swears the room begins to dim the longer her contemplates this cold, hard fact. 

“Further,” Jasmine barrels on, her voice rising with every word, “my father made it abundantly clear that your most _exceptional_ counsel was taken into consideration when making this decision. That you gave such _outstanding_ advice which helped him come to a decision. Look me right in the eye and tell me that isn’t the truth.”

This time, his vision flickers completely black for a fraction of a moment. The chatter in the room melts away, his head empty and his body weightless as he allows the full force of Jasmine’s words to hit him. And they are hitting him, delivering a devastating blow that comes from the back rather than the front.

He looks at Jasmine, at her arms crossed tightly across her chest as if defending herself from an unseen threat, at her eyes which shine like glass, and he knows without a doubt that if they were not here in full view of the the palace staff, she would have already landed more than a few blows to his face and screamed the most dangerous, cutting words imaginable. To break him, to hurt him, just as she believes he has done to her. To make him see, to make him understand that a gilded cage is still a cage after all.

“Please.” Jafar lowers his voice, hoping that Jasmine can see and understand what he’s pleading for. 

Her tears spill, her laughter devoid of all humour when she tells him, “You’re nothing but a lying bastard. You _liar_.” She wipes desperately at her face, sputtering and tripping over her words and lost within the madness. “I would have understood if you had told me no that night when—when—you know. But this is low, even for you.”

The pain which shoots through him is all twisting knives and jagged edges, her name moving past his lips the only sound he can manage. Jasmine turns and storms from the hall, leaving the air around him permanently scented with her perfume. The servants reluctantly resume their work, spurred on only by the fact that their vizier stands publicly shamed in the hall and is likely enraged beyond all comprehension.

Having silently witnessed the entire spectacle, Dalia appears at him side, clearly wanting to speak but not knowing what to say, if anything at all.

“Why did you not inform me of this?” he says in a voice that is balanced on a very precarious edge. 

Dalia’s eyes widen in an almost comical fashion, staring at him as if he’s suddenly transfigured himself into a viper. “With all due respect, Grand Vizier…are you _joking?_ Did you not hear me pounding at your door before sunset today, or were you too occupied basking in your drunken stupor?”

She had come to warn him. She had come to warn him of this fast-approaching circus and he had ignored her as she had been nothing more than a useless gnat. 

Jafar wants to scream himself hoarse. 

Hamed.

Hamed has betrayed him. But why? Why do this?

“Never mind,” Jafar finally barks. “You are dismissed.” 

Dalia does not move. She regards him through unreadable eyes.

“Are you deaf? I believe I expressly asked you to leave. I will not ask again.”

Something in Dalia’s face softens, and with mounting horror, Jafar realizes that it’s pity shrouding her eyes. “Are you really not going to go after her? To see if she’s alright?”

“Why on earth would I?” he snarls. “What do I care what happens to her?”

“Don’t you, though?”

Jafar pushes past Dalia, missing the half smile playing around her mouth. He rushes to the upper floors, seeking Jasmine’s rooms with his heart thundering in a bruising crescendo.

He nearly trips over his robes when he arrives at her floor. 

“For gods’ sake,” Jafar grunts out. Rajah, the princess’ pet tiger and the palace’s routine irritation, stands guard by the staircase, blocking access to the hall. The massive cat growls at his approach, refusing to budge from his current position.

“Do not be difficult. If you wish to truly protect your master, you will move immediately.” Rajah sits up to his full height, ferocity in his stance. He intends to fight to the very end. Admirable, but not good enough. “Fine. Have it your way then.”

It’s been some time since Jafar has called upon his magic, but he feels it rising within him with nothing but a thought. It caresses him, whispers to him, deadly yet soothing, ready to do his bidding. 

The eyes of the staff at his side glow an eerie ruby-red, and Jafar blows a gust of air towards Rajah, who is momentarily frozen in time. The wind turns red, and with a flick of his wrist, Jafar transforms it into a sparrow, the bird clicking its beak and happily whistling a tune. It circles round Rajah’s head, luring him down the staircase and to the dining hall. The beast follows without pause, enchanted by the illusion.

Jafar smiles, sharp as daggers. “A cat is still just a cat, after all.”

He glances nervously down the hall, and, inhaling a sharp breath, prepares himself mentally for the battle that awaits. 


	8. The Prince

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jafar decides to confront Jasmine after their public spectacle in the dining hall. That same night, matters escalate as he finally meets the prince who has been granted permission to take Jasmine as his wife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will likely be the last chapter for a couple of weeks. I'm going to be really busy with real life things, but I hope to get back to this story as soon as I can. We're SO close to the end! I hope you all enjoy this one. Just a little treat for your patience...sort of. Your thoughts are always appreciated, and as always, thank you for reading. :)
> 
> (And yes, I'm going to change the summary soon, I promise. The original summary no longer fits the story.)

Jasmine’s bedroom is a disheveled paradise teeming with secrets. Much like the seaside tower, the walls are abound with whispered longings and knowledge forbidden to all but the room’s sole occupant. Being here feels as if he’s committing a crime, though it wouldn’t be the only one in the last thirty-five years.

The lush violet drapery brings to mind endless nights spent laughing and arguing over the most frivolous of topics, Jasmine’s arms wound around his neck while her giggles pierced high above the ceiling. He recalls evenings spent poring over books, her passion-laced voice sparking something within him as she spoke of lands and people that lived only in the pages of the stories he gave to her. Evidently, maps and tomes of law and politics were not the only things which interested her.

How he wishes his return to this room could be under different circumstances.

Jafar’s eyes rest on a pile of books and scrolls flung messily on the carpeted floor. He follows the trail of pages and ink to the weathered, open volume resting just beneath the bed. Recognizing the cracked spine and the scarlet handkerchief tucked almost lovingly between the pages, he is filled with a wave of yearning so strong that it is enough to shatter his knees. 

He pushes further into the room, setting his staff down by the door. The light from the freshly-lit lanterns bathes his skin in the caress of summer, the air scented of ash and the delicate petals of a flower. 

Reaching for his magic, Jafar sends smoky tendrils of it to the door, warding and locking it from the inside. The windows, too, are enmeshed in this enchanted web, ensuring privacy for as long as it may be required.

Jasmine lies to one side of her bed, tears ruining the black kohl drawn heavily around her eyes. Her cheeks are flushed, her face wet with tears. Jafar is surprised that he has not yet been reduced to dust, for she glares at him with a poisoned hatred fuelled by days and months and years of suppressed fury. 

Let her hate him then. 

“I don’t recall issuing you an invitation,” she spits as she wipes her cheek with the back of her hand. “Get the hell out.”

She hadn’t issued an invitation, but the unlocked door may as well have been one.

“Now princess, there’s no need for such language.” He purposefully eyes the books strewn on the floor and says, “I trust you have been enjoying your own company as of late?” As much as he would like to offer her comfort, all he has for her are stinging words that will hurt her more than any wound sustained in battle. Sometimes he wishes for her to bleed, to bleed just as he has done in his quest to forget the past and forge a new path forward.

But doing so is impossible, because all he has are memories and the taste of her kiss clinging to his lips like the whisper of a ghost.

Jasmine’s mouth stretches thinly across her face. “_Leave,_” she snarls. “Which part of that is confusing for you? Am I speaking in a foreign tongue? Get out.”

Ignoring her, Jafar sinks comfortably onto the blush-coloured chaise perched by the wall. He leans back, spreading his legs and allowing his gaze to darken every corner of the room. “Call the guards then,” he taunts. “If you truly wish for me to go, that is. I am certain you will have no trouble getting what you desire. Stamping your feet and wailing to the gods always seemed to do the trick.”

Jasmine rolls over, feigning deafness. She hugs a pillow to her chest as Jafar continues his tirade, speaking to her back. “You want someone to blame, so you blame me. You know for a fact that it was not I who counselled your father into making such a ludicrous decision. You want answers, and it is easier to tell yourself I did this rather than believe your father lied while looking you plainly in the face.”

He doesn’t know if what he says is true, only knows that if Jasmine really is looking to place blame, the simpler route is to go on believing that he is nothing but a wretched man who delights in her pain. And he would have, once upon a time, but now he’s not so sure. Now his heart is a traitor, and hiding in the shadows will no longer suffice.

“Give me one good reason why I should listen to you,” she demands, her voice muffled by the pillow. “This wouldn’t be the first time you’ve done this. So what do I believe, Grand Vizier, your words or your actions?”

“I would tell you to believe what’s in your heart, but it remains to be seen whether or not you still possess one.”

He doesn’t mean to say it, but it is much too late to reclaim the words. Time lies suspended in motion, and Jasmine’s shoulders crumple in a sob that shakes her from head to toe. Curling into a ball, she retreats inwards, as if trying to stopper the wound that will cease her grief from pouring forth.

What Jafar sees now is a new Jasmine, a Jasmine that is crumbling under the pressure of expectations which threaten to steal her very self from her. It is a new world that the princess had woken up to today, a new world in which her freedom had been placed in the hands of another. 

Someone other than her father, making things all the worse.

Crossing the room in silence, Jafar slips into bed beside the princess, shifting her body so that her back remains pressed firmly against his chest. He sits up behind her, one hand folded across her waist, the other tangled in her mass of raven hair. 

He expects her to resist, to shred him to pieces with that incessantly silver tongue of hers, but she instead welcomes this intrusion of her personal space. She adjusts her position slightly so that she is able to to face him, burying her tear-streaked face into his neck. 

Jafar has never wanted to be anyone’s protector, and he certainly never bargained on being Jasmine’s. But if this is all he can do, if this is all he can offer to soften the blow of what her father has done, then he will do it. He would rather she turns to him with her pain and sorrow and utter desperation than to anyone else. He, at least, can empathize with her grief.

“I’m so tired,” she whimpers against his neck. “I am so extraordinarily _tired_.”

His fingers curl deeper into her hair, his arm tightening against her waist. “My dear princess,” he sighs in mock exasperation. “What on earth are we going to do with you?” Her sobs fill the room, unrestrained and unapologetic. To Jafar’s surprise, she quiets against him, her arms flinging themselves in an iron grip around his neck. His heart softens at this tiny, seemingly insignificant gesture. To him, it is everything. 

Even if none of it is real, even if it means nothing to her, this moment that hangs frozen through time and space—this moment means the world to him. 

“Sometimes I think it would be better if I never existed.”

Jafar stills, his voice carefully neutral but containing a dark edge. “And why would you say such a thing?”

Jasmine lifts her head and steals a sideways glance at his expression, thinly-veiled with a cloud of concern. “Because I’m human, and being human means I want things. Inheriting this kingdom means I am not allowed to want anything except the best for my people. And while I do want that for them, I can’t live with the thought of knowing I’m just a political pawn. I can’t live my life knowing I can’t make my own choices. This isn’t living, it’s existing. Painfully existing.”

He considers the implications of her statement and can’t decide whether or not he wishes to comment on her confession. Because if he does, if he opens his mouth now, he will reveal much more than he’s willing to. The fact of the matter is that existing in a world where this woman does not is a punishment of a very special kind. 

“What did your father tell you? Regarding his…decision”

“As if you don’t know.”

“Jasmine.” 

All colour drains from her face at the sound of her name floating across his tongue. Surprise is a good look on her. “You know the story. He’s chosen a husband for me. Some foreign prince from a kingdom called Ababwa.” She spits the name as if she’s being forced to chew glass. It may as well be one and the same.

“Ababwa,” Jafar repeats, emotionless, like a broken toy flung into the mud. “I seem to be unfamiliar with it. You are certain that was the name of the kingdom?”

“That’s what _he_ said.” She snorts, telling him much more than words ever could. Jasmine is nothing if not polite to the very end, and for her to recklessly voice her thoughts in this way…well. The man must be nothing short of a walking disaster.

Grief has made Jafar brave. Or perhaps foolish, or a mixture of both. Dropping his hands to rest on her thighs, he asks, “You met him already, did you? What did you think of him?”

She does not object to his touch, though she does not exactly revel in it either. “It doesn’t matter. He’s arrogant and dimwitted and thinks jewels and clothes will buy me. Just like all the others.” She stops, allowing her head to rest against his shoulder. Perhaps he is not the only brave one this evening. “You really weren’t involved in any of this.”

“I was not consulted, but had I been…”

Had he been, Jafar would likely have caused the guards to come running. Try as he might to craft an appearance of indifference and duty, witnessing the purchase of this woman to the highest bidder is something even he would not stand for.

Because it _is_ a purchase. This sham of a marriage is just that: an exchange of goods and services, with Agrabah’s princess at its centre.

What game is Hamed playing? The man has always been keen to do the exact opposite of what he’s done, to allow his daughter the very choice that he has just taken away. And why bring Jafar into it? For what purpose?

“I don’t want to marry him,” Jasmine says darkly. “Not that I have a choice. If I did, I would have settled on a man long ago."

“If you did have a choice, who would you choose?” The question is a dangerous one, but tonight is a very rare opportunity to venture into the mind of Agrabah’s precious princess. A bastard he may be for prying when her walls are down, but he must know, must try to get _something_ out of her even if nothing will come of it in the end.

The way she looks at him appears to confirm her belief that he has taken leave of all his senses. When he doesn’t say anything more, she asks, incredulous, “Surely you’re not being serious?” Silence. “You _are_ being serious.”

“Answer me,” he repeats, a teasing edge to his voice. “Who would you choose?” He is digging his own grave with this one, his heart thundering fiercely against his ribs. 

Jasmine peers hard into his face. Trying to read him, trying to find any hint of malice in his cold, deadened eyes. She finds none. “Someone that I shouldn’t want.”

She sighs, extricating herself from his lap. The loss of the weight of her body pressed against his almost causes him to tug her hand and draw her back, back to him.

The silence rings louder than a festival drum, and with her back to him, asks him in the smallest voice imaginable, “Did it make you angry when I tried to seduce you?”

Jafar laughs at the sheer ridiculousness of it all, causing the princess’ head to whip back in his direction. Perhaps he should have more tact, but he cannot help it. Her cheeks are tinted pink, and despite the mess of kohl smeared around her eyes, she still remains absolutely devastating. 

“So you admit to trying to seduce me? It was only a matter of time before you realized what a charmer I am.” He says it in jest, but she has no idea just how close to the truth she is. 

If possible, Jasmine’s blush turns several shades darker in an instant. “Be serious please.”

“I am being completely serious. Since you asked so politely…” He looks away, debating on whether to offer her a neatly-packaged lie tied with a pretty pink bow. Seconds of contemplative silence later, he settles on, “No. I was not angry.”

“What?”

Jafar's eyes meet hers. Her mouth remains half-open, still wrapped around that one syllable, disbelief etched all over. 

“I was—am—not angry.”

Some kind of understanding dawns on her face, and she slowly nods, perhaps trying to convince herself of something she’s not willing to admit to just yet. He can only hope. 

She bites her lip, contemplating another thought which he cannot yet grasp. “It was never about getting favours from you, you know. I—I did what I did because I wanted to. That night, in the tower.”

There is no need to ask what behaviour she’s referring too, because Jafar replays the memory over and over at all hours of the day like a drunken fool. She is not the only one who holds onto that moment as if it’s being wrested violently from her grasp.

He sees the vulnerability blanketing her eyes, sees the fear that he might spit in her face and laugh bitterly like the last time. And it is this—this weight of her vulnerability—that confirms for him what he’s known all along but refused to believe.

That maybe, just maybe, Agrabah’s princess is telling the truth. 

“I need to go and make an appearance,” she says through the silence. He doesn’t press her for details. The appearance she speaks of is no secret. 

“Yes,” he says, releasing the invisible bonds of magic barring the door. Something in Jasmine’s expression flickers, but he holds his tongue. “I will see you later.”

“I have no doubt,” she whispers. 

And just like that, she is gone, slipped through his fingers yet again.

***

The palace dining hall reeks of loneliness despite the merriment unfolding before her very eyes. Such a dinner with so few guests would have been better held in the parlour, but Jasmine supposes this is the best way to rub the salt of her impending future into her face. She will be married in this room after all, and there’s not a damn thing she or anyone else can do about it.

Even though she would have preferred to wear turquoise, a luxurious gown of gold and emerald is draped across her body, perfectly painted as the perfect prize for none other than Prince Ali of Ababwa. 

Clearly, her preferences have never mattered much.

Jasmine hasn’t been able to stop thinking about Jafar since leaving her room to dress for tonight’s spectacle. She’d barely registered her handmaiden’s words as the woman had arranged her hair into a neat twist at the nape of her neck. The moss-coloured jewels coiled in her hair burn her scalp, the curve of her cheek throbbing with every false smile. She is thankful for the cosmetics that Dalia had painstakingly applied to her face, concealing most of the damage from view.

Jafar’s body moulded around hers is all she can think about, the only thought that grounds her throughout this ordeal. Eventually, she will have to let him go. But not yet.

She is still angry at him, angry for rejecting her and humiliating her, for pushing her away when all she’d wanted was to fall into him and never look back. But the anger is beginning to ebb away, replaced by a longing that she can no longer hide from. 

She loves him. She doesn’t know if she can ever forgive him, doesn’t know if she _wants_ to forgive him, but what she does know is that she is completely, unconditionally in love with Jafar, Grand Vizier of Agrabah.

As is usually the custom at events such as these, the Grand Vizier would be seated at the Sultan’s right, with Jasmine on his left. Tonight, her father had foregone custom by allowing Jafar to be seated on her left, with the Sultan on her right. Jafar does not smell of the sea tonight, but of unease and animosity. It is a quiet sort of ire that no one would be able to distinguish unless they knew him well. 

And she knows him a little too well, just as he knows her.

He had been correct in his assumption that she had wanted to blame him for her betrothal, because that would have been easiest. Easier to blame the man that had betrayed her once rather than to believe he gives even an inkling of a damn where her happiness is concerned.

Jasmine picks a spoon up from the table and twirls it absentmindedly between her fingers. A neutral expression speaking of warmth and hospitality rests on her face, but she knows that out of all the people sitting at this table right now, she’s fooling all of them but one. She is glad that he does not sit across from her, because she would not be able to avoid the scrutiny of his hardened gaze if he was.

How long can he keep up this charade before he leaps across the table and hits Ali over the head with his staff? He’s known the man for all of thirty minutes, and already she can see that his annoyance rears its head.

To her right, Jasmine’s father laughs, a high booming laugh, as Ali’s attendant says something amusing. She’s not paying attention, so it’s impossible to discern whether her father is putting on a show or indulging their guests. Probably both. 

Ali’s attendant is clearly from lands that exist far from Agrabah. His skin gleams like midnight, his head covered in a blue and gold turban crafted from the very stars. He seems likeable enough, though she can’t say the same for the prince he serves under.

“Where did you say you were from, Prince Ali?” Jafar’s drawling voice interrupts her thoughts, forcing her to drop the spoon she twirls between her fingers. It drops to the table with a soft clatter. 

“Um, Ababwa. Much farther than you’ve travelled I’m sure.”

Prince Ali is certainly a sight to behold, but there’s something about him that Jasmine strongly dislikes. He’s charming enough, with a sweet smile dripping honey, and a handsome, boyish face that inspires immediate trust in others. He’s dressed in gleaming white, just as he had been during his first meeting with the royal family. His turban sits slightly askew on his head, his manner a little too confident.

The prince from a foreign kingdom that no one has ever heard of, and he thinks the world should bow at his feet. If he thinks that she will bow, he is much more foolish than she’d originally believed.

She can almost see Jafar’s eyes narrowing to slits beside her. “Umababwa? Forgive my rudeness, but I believe I heard the princess say ‘Ababwa.’ Has the name of your kingdom changed since earlier this afternoon?”

Jasmine bites the inside of her cheek to prevent her laughter from escaping. From her peripheral vision, she can make out the flash of Jafar’s mirth-filled eyes, of the small wrinkles deepening at the corners. Her shoulders shake with silent laughter as she takes the napkin folded across her lap and places it against her mouth, coughing into it. Her battered cheek makes her wince, and the slight twitching of Jafar’s lips isn’t helping matters. Damn him and his infuriating comments at the worst of times.

She has to admit, he _is_ quite funny when he’s not busy competing for bastard of the century. 

“Are you alright, Jasmine?” he father asks, turning to her. He has barely asked the question when three servants appear at her side, all brandishing pitchers of ice-cold water. She waves them away through subsiding laughter, which she continues to disguise as a delicate cough.

“It’s nothing,” she says, apologetic. “The soup must have been a little too spicy.”

Her father beams at her, his expression comfortable as that of a lazy cat basking in the sun for hours at a time. Jasmine knows exactly what he’s going to say before he says it. 

Tonight may as well be the best acting performance of her life.

“How do you feel my girl?” Her father pats her hand, warmth dancing in his eyes. She can’t hate him. She wants to, oh how badly she wants to, but her father is all she’s ever had. Despite what he’s done, what he’s agreed to, she still wants to make him proud. “There can be no man better than Prince Ali, wouldn’t you say?” He motions towards Ali, who grins awkwardly as he holds up his chalice in what she thinks is supposed to be agreement. She feels Jafar tense beside her, taut as a thread about to snap. 

Jasmine briefly surveys the banners hanging from the windows, the paper flowers decorating every inch of the hall. Is this really it? Is this really the place where she will agree to be the wife of a man that she’s known for all of twenty-four hours?

She will not run, because running from destiny never did bode well, and she owes it to her people to be the leader she knows she must be. Someday. She just never imagined that she would lead quite like this, the pretty puppet of the future Sultan.

She smiles, gazing at Ali through long lashes. “Yes, well I could never ask for—“

“Prince Ali,” Jafar interrupts, saving her from the painful ordeal of crafting a pleasing answer. There is irony in being saved from the devil. “Tell me, Prince Ali, how have you built up the economy of Ababwa? What does your country specialize in when it comes to trade?”

Ali’s face resembles that of a man watching his innards being cut slowly from his body. “Uh, trade?” He shoots a look towards his attendant, who appears to ignore him.

“Come now Jafar,” says the Sultan, waving away the question. “This is a time for celebration, not for drudgery. I’m sure Prince Ali would much rather discuss lighter topics. The night calls for some levity.”

Jafar picks up his wine chalice, a storm descending upon his face. Jasmine watches as he lifts it to his lips, takes a sip, and sets it back down. “I mean no offence my Sultan, but since you intend to give your daughter to this man, I think it best that I get to know him. Unlike you, I did not have the pleasure of making his acquaintance.” Jasmine nearly chokes, recognizing the jab. She is grateful, and though Jafar’s words are sharp, her heart softens. “I trust your judgement, naturally,” he continues. “But I would like to know more about the nation with whom we will soon become close neighbours.”

The Sultan clears his throat, trying to buy himself some time. He did not expect for Jafar to comment on his secretive decision-making in front of their guests, though he should have foreseen it. Jasmine finds herself hoping that Jafar’s words sting. “That’s a great question,” she chimes in, addressing Ali. “What’s your kingdom like?”

“Uh, we have—uh—jewels and…donkeys!”

“Donkeys,” repeats Jafar in a monotone. “Riveting. And do these donkeys sustain your economy year round? There must be an abundance of wildlife in order for you to fill your coffers with nothing but the labour of donkeys.”

Ali laughs nervously and mouths something indistinguishable to his attendant. The man effectively silences him with a pointed look that demands he stop speaking immediately. “Yes, there’s a lot of wildlife,” says the man in the shimmering blue turban. “But it’s not just donkeys. If you want, I can show you the layout of our kingdom on a map. You can clearly see the various sectors of the economy reflected in the different areas of the kingdom.”

“How most gracious of you,” Jafar purrs. “But I do think that I require some air. It’s getting rather…stuffy in here. Perhaps the Sultan might be interested in taking a look at your map.”

True to his word, Jafar leaves the table and exits through the ornately carved doors leading to the courtyard. Her father and the remaining men give Jasmine an apologetic look as they rise from the table laden with half-eaten dishes and move to another. Ali rushes back to his room to fetch a map—presumably a map of Ababwa—though he returns much more quickly than is humanly possible. He spreads the map on the table, and soon, some of the guards stationed at the entrances and exits also approach, their curiosity piqued at what Ababwa has to offer their ruler, if anything at all.

“Why don’t you keep Jafar some company in the courtyard, hm?” the Sultan suggests. “Might be best to get away from all this talk of politics and economics.”

Of course, because a woman’s place is far from the sphere of men, far enough that she will never question authority or speak her mind freely. “A great idea, father.”

Outside, Jasmine is immediately assaulted by strong winds whipping her skin, seemingly from nowhere. The air holds a bewitching quality that snakes its way around her limbs, and she knows she’s not simply imagining it. 

Jafar is by the rose garden, his back to her as he admires the fountain filled with gurgling streams of water. The moment that he hears her footsteps sounding on the stones, he turns, an unreadable furor etched upon his face. Her insides liquify at the thought of it being directed at her, but then she remembers her father’s words and Jafar’s questioning of Ali, and her body sags in relief.

Jafar motions her to come closer, and she does…only to have her body pinned against the wall by the roses, caught securely in the iron refuge of his arms. 

“What are you doing?” she breathes, peering nervously into the dining hall. His fingers twist themselves into her hair, and he moves closer, his eyes boring into hers and his lips hovering dangerously close. “They can see us. They _will_see us.”

He pays her no mind as he skims his fingertips over the curve of her cheek. Rubbing at the spot lightly, Jasmine winces, and Jafar’s face morphs in a mask of silent fury at once. She swallows thickly against the lump forming in her throat. The bruise beneath her makeup shines purple and blue, like a plum ripe for the picking.

So. He’s been paying close attention to her tonight after all.

“Who did this?” he asks, his voice unsteady. “Who—who struck you?”

Jasmine lowers her gaze, her lips stretching in a sad smile. He doesn’t need her to tell him; he already knows. “If it makes you feel any better, I was as mouthy as could be. Father always indulges my whims, but perhaps this time I was a little _too_ mouthy.”

Her father has never laid a hand on her, no matter what the law may say about his right to do so. But this time… This time things had escalated, and Jasmine can’t say that she’s one bit sorry.

Jafar brushes his thumb over the bruise, a war being fought behind the darkness of his eyes. And then a most wondrous, horrifying thing happens: the tenderness in her cheek instantly vanishes, the bruise healing into unmarred flesh. She cannot see it to confirm it, but she knows it to be true. 

She stares at him in a mixture of admiration and terror, her heart sinking like a leaden weight through to the ground. She knows, has always known that Jafar possessed magic. What kind of magic remained an uncertain mystery, and she’d never guessed that it would be this. 

So she’s not crazy. She really can feel it. But how, and more importantly, why?

_He might be allowing it,_ she thinks. _Somehow_. 

“You have…healing magic?” she squeaks, unsure. She sounds more and more unhinged with each passing moment, even to herself.

“I know a trick or two,” he says. “One cannot destroy their enemies without understanding how to heal too.”

Very well put. 

She momentarily wonders how many people he’s lead to certain death, how many enemies were after his head whom he had vanquished. 

Jasmine is no fool. She knows who this man is, knows what he’s capable of, and she accepts it wholeheartedly. Her intent is not to change him, never to change him. Perhaps with her he has found some measure of acceptance, or so she’d like to believe. Some room to freely be the person that he is. 

She inhales sharply and is rewarded by the fragrance of the sea. He must have spent most of the day by the water today. “I can feel it, you know.”

“Feel what?” he whispers, caressing her newly-healed cheek with his fingertips.

“Your magic. I can feel it. Am I supposed to be able to feel it?”

He tilts his head to the side, expressing some measure of genuine surprise. In some ways, he’s aware that she’s kept his secrets, and he has kept hers. “I do not know. But I do hope you’ll be able to feel _this._”

And then, nearly in the same breath as he speaks his words, Jafar’s lips collide with hers in an uncontrollable kiss that has her looking towards the past, present, and future. His turban falls to the ground, and his hand drops from her face to grip her waist, her hips, any part of her that he can reach. Jasmine welcomes his touch, her lips moving forcefully against his, her hands gripping his face in both her hands. His beard scratches her cheeks as her tongue sweeps over the seam of his lips, emboldening Jafar’s wandering hands to slide beneath the voluminous folds of her gown. She gasps, sucking on his tongue to help stifle the sound that comes as a result of his hands upon her bare skin.

She will never have enough of this man. She has missed him, missed having him this close, missed having his tongue in her mouth and his hands possessing her body. Because with Jafar, she doesn’t mind being owned in this way, so long as she can have him, too.

He pulls back, his breath stuttering as he presses his forehead to hers. Their noses are touching, and his hands still grip her thighs beneath her gown.

“This means nothing,” Jasmine breathes.

She doesn’t mean it. She knows she will never mean it. For the rest of her life, as she lays in another man’s bed night after night, she will never mean it. Not even then.

“This means nothing,” he echoes, voice like gravel.

And as history repeats itself yet again, they are both turned liars tonight.


	9. The Edge of Victory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day has come for Jasmine to publicly proclaim the name of the man who will be her husband. As she helps the princess prepare for the ceremony that will decide her fate, Dalia asks her to reconsider her course...thereby revealing that the handmaiden knows more than she lets on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back with another update! I don't know who's still reading at this point, but for those of you that have supported me since the beginning: thank you, thank you, thank you. I hope you enjoy this one!

“Where were you last night?”

The pearl comb slips from Dalia’s fingers, causing it to dig rather painfully into Jasmine’s scalp. Its metal teeth scrape against her crown, an unpleasant twinge stabbing through her in waves. 

“Whatever do you mean?” Dalia asks a heartbeat too late as she twists Jasmine’s hair into swirls and coils the princess could only ever dream of replicating. “I was at dinner. With you and Prince…”

She trails off, her fingers losing their usual dexterity in her hair. Jasmine catches her eye in the oval mirror perched on the vanity. A subtle sheen of alarm sweeps over her handmaiden’s face, and Jasmine has the sinking suspicion that she is being lied to. Dalia’s saccharine smiles have saved many state dinners from plunging into calamity, but even her sugary, infectious smiles cannot hide the morsel of truth she attempts to conceal.

Trying not to dwell on her reflection for too long, Jasmine says, “Liar.” _Gods._ She resembles some manner of insect glittering from head to toe, begging to be swatted away.

In a sense, she _will_ be swatted away, her own desires ignored completely as the rest of her life is decided for her. After all, a woman with her own mind who wishes to be her own master is nothing more than vermin waiting for its inevitable demise. Her education has taught her much, but it has also taught her her rightful place in this kingdom: to be silent and pliable to the wishes of men. 

Dalia sighs, likely exasperated at Jasmine’s uncanny ability to pull the truth from her no matter the circumstances. “Oh alright,” she huffs. “I was—“ she struggles here, hesitating, considering carefully. “I was in the garden.”

Jasmine rises abruptly from her seat at the vanity, accidentally sweeping a perfume bottle off its surface and forcing it to shatter on the pristine white tile. A light floral aroma twists through the room, blanketing everything in its spell. “What do you mean you were in the garden?” She grabs hold of Dalia’s wrist just as she bends to pick up the shattered glass. Whatever she had expected her to say, it had not been this. 

With a feather-light touch, Dalia shoves Jasmine back into her chair. She complies, but her body is stiff, her eyes wild and her cheeks pink as small pieces of hair are braided at her crown, further securing the pearl comb into place. The flush creeps all the way to the tips of her ears.

She’s not going to deny it. There’s no point in denying anything. Though Dalia has not been with her long, though they are not as close as they should be, Jasmine knows she will not speak of what she saw to anyone else. Judgement does not linger anywhere on the woman’s face, and the tension wound tight within the princess unwinds at this small shred of light bleeding through the darkness. She at least has this small victory.

“It is not my place to meddle, however…” Dalia pauses, examining Jasmine’s reflection in the mirror before nodding to herself in triumph and continuing with her work. “Are you certain this is what you wish to do?”

An insurmountable heaviness winds its way through Jasmine’s chest, through her limbs and settling down in her throat. A heaviness that reminds her of the herculean task laid before her today, a task that wracks havoc on her body and drives her nausea to the surface. 

Is she sure that she wants to stand publicly before the kingdom’s most senior officials, clothed in the uniform of the sacrificial bride-to-be as she pledges her love and loyalty to a man that she barely even knows? 

Is she sure that she wants to throw her entire life away in the breath of a moment, under the watchful gaze of the man she actually does love?

The mere thought is like a rusted nail being driven through her back, affixing her firmly to the wall. 

“I’m sure that I will do what must be done,” she says instead. Dalia’s hand is warm on her shoulder, a comfort that is more pitying than reassuring. 

“I saw both of you last night. In the rose garden,” Dalia adds, as if unsure that her meaning was clear without the addition.

Certain that she’s about to lose consciousness or slip through the cracks in the floor, Jasmine does all that she can to keep her distress locked firmly within her trembling shell of a body. She imagines crystal-clear waves, endless blue skies, and past echoes of laughter that transport her away from the madness. Anything to push away the words that linger in the air like thorns. But even this is not enough, because when she thinks of those things, she remembers _him_, and that simply will not do. 

_He is the problem,_ she reminds herself. 

_Are you sure? _her own voice echoes back at her. _Is he the problem or the solution?_

“Why?” Jasmine whispers, wrapping her arms around herself. The golden silk covering her arms is cool and nearly translucent. “Why were you there?” She has so many questions, so many things she wants to say, but her voice fails her the moment she imagines herself saying more. She wonders how many others know about her and Jafar. How many others have seen them, how many have been watching and listening carefully to the comings and goings of their princess. She feels foolish beyond measure.

“It’s alright,” comes Dalia’s honey voice, reassuring in all the ways that matter. “I may have—assisted—your good friend in buying you some time.”

Jasmine’s mouth falls open, her insides churning and unsure of what, exactly, a man like Jafar could possibly need assistance with. He seems to be doing quite well at intimidating the masses all on his own. Curious, she asks, “Assisted him how? Did you promise to stare someone to death on his behalf?”

“Says the woman who can cow an entire room to silence with just one look,” Dalia laughs. “No, the Grand Vizier never asked for my help, but can you blame me? The man may be a gifted politician, but romance is evidently not his area of expertise. He was going to get the both of you found out.” Jasmine chooses not to tell her about his magic, the sorcery that she had felt emanating off his skin and cloaking her father’s eyes like dew.

“When you said you saw us in the rose garden…” Her mouth goes dry even as she utters the words, because she knows for a fact that Dalia had seen so much more than two people simply taking a moonlit stroll. “You are _killing_ me.”

“Better that I kill you here and now than your father,” Dalia says, turning to the overstuffed wardrobe. Peering inside and considering the feast of silks and satins laid before her, she carefully selects a pair of elegantly beaded sandals with a slight height at the heel, and, kneeling before Jasmine, slips her feet into the shoes. The sandals have more buckles and ties than even her most expensive dresses. “The Grand Vizier is a good man—“

“—try again,” Jasmine cuts across sharply.

“—a terrifying man,” Dalia amends. "But a good man nonetheless. He is cruel and cunning but it cannot be denied that he will look after you. He would move the very heavens if it meant your happiness, your safety.” One sandal is now firmly secured onto Jasmine’s foot, and Dalia begins working on the other, her fingers quickly snapping buckles and forcing ribbons into place. “And forgive me for saying so, but you know very well that the choice you wish to make is not the choice that you are about to subject yourself to.”

_Subject._ What an ugly word. It sounds wrong on her tongue, suggesting that she is not a willing participant in whatever she is about to face, but rather forcing herself to endure an ordeal that is beyond her control. An ordeal where she is the puppet, and her father’s court the puppeteers. 

“I don’t want to be looked after. I want to be viewed as an equal, not to be coddled like a child.”She knows, of course, that Jafar is precisely all this and more. He has never tried to control her, and as much as he likes playing his games of power and politics, even she knows that he will leave her alone if she tells him to do so. But Prince Ali?

Prince Ali will choke her to death with that suffocating air of superiority. He will take care of her, but not in the way that she needs.

Today’s Validation Ceremony is merely an opportunity for Jasmine’s father to show the world that he has his pretty little headstrong daughter under his thumb, that he has full control. She knows beyond all doubt that her father loves her, that she is precious to him in ways that no one else is, but it doesn’t change what he is allowing to happen. This wedding is so much more than a father looking after his daughter. This wedding is a conquest, nothing more and nothing less.

She can already see the events that will unfold during the ceremony. She will take careful, measured steps to her father’s throne, where he will sit flanked by his vizier and most trusted ministers. Prince Ali will stand to her father’s left, his servant surveying him closely as he smiles down at her, waiting for her to reach the steps of the throne. And then, once she is there, her father will ask her:_ Is this the man you choose to be your husband?_ And she will say yes, she chooses Prince Ali, and then the drums will sound among scattered applause as another frivolous celebration is held later tonight as she retreats to her chambers to ponder the execution that she has willingly thrust herself into.

And then, once that is done with, she will never be able to look Jafar plainly in the face ever again. Because what will follow in a few days’ time is the wedding, a wedding in which she will not find _him_ at the end of the aisle.

“You say you want an equal, and you need but look a few metres away in the palace’s highest tower. He loves you,” Dalia says, cutting into her racing thoughts. She doesn’t want to know what look rests upon her face, but she’s sure it’s an equal mixture of hope, skepticism, and unruly terror. She’s suddenly forgotten how to breathe. “He does,” Dalia insists, taking in the horror clouding Jasmine’s eyes. “Which brings us to the most pressing question: do you love him?”

What a silly thing to ask. Of _course _she loves him. She wants to shout it from the heavens, yell it from every street corner in the kingdom, proclaim it in front of every single damned soul that resides in this joke of a palace. She would give all of this up, all the riches and the titles and the luxuries, if only it could mean being by his side always. She would renounce whatever future awaited her as queen consort, if only she was certain there was someone who would rule in her place, someone who would not abandon her people to their miserable fates. 

But there is no one else, only her, and as it stands, an unwilling ruler is better than no ruler at all. “You know that no matter what answer I give you, any future contrary to the one I’m walking into is not an option.” Even as Jasmine says it, her heart folds in on itself, crushing her with the weight of this grim prospect. “You know what the law is. And Jafar—” she swallows thickly around his name, “—he is not a prince. This is what’s best, for both of us.”

Dalia regards her pityingly, and Jasmine can’t stand it, but there truly is nowhere else to go. Nowhere to run or escape to. This is it.

“Is it truly what’s best? Is choosing misery for the rest of your days what’s best?”

She knows that Dalia is only trying to help her, to steer her in the direction that she herself so desperately wants to travel. But she can’t help her annoyance from swimming to the surface. It’s less what she’s saying and more so the fact that she’s right in her sentiments. No matter how positively she tries to spin this, she would be choosing misery. Choosing Prince Ali would mean a loveless marriage and loneliness worse than what she endures now. And Jasmine simply isn’t ready to face that truth even as time quickly runs its course.

Two successive knocks sound at the door. Jasmine gives her permission for whoever is on the other side to enter, and the door opens to reveal one of her father’s guards. 

“Princess,” he begins, sweeping into a low bow. “The Sultan awaits your presence in the throne room. They’re all waiting.”

_They’re._ She doesn’t have to ask to understand what he means. 

Well, time to get it over with and face her fate. “Tell my father I’ll be right down.”

The guard leaves, and Jasmine is left standing there with her handmaiden at her side as she mutters a prayer, petitioning every god she has ever honoured to give her the strength to do what she must. Her fate is completely out of her hands.

But maybe it doesn’t have to be.

***

Every step is like a scorpion’s sting beneath her feet, ceaseless and vicious as she drags herself to the head of the throne room. The sun-splashed silk cloaking her body flows behind her like water, long and fluid and never-ending. Jasmine is lucky to have Dalia at her rear. Though she cannot see her, the princess knows that Dalia holds the silk between her fingers, ensuring that she does not trip and break both her ankles. 

Keeping her eyes forward and her head held high, Jasmine maintains a radiant smile, painted by a master artist with a single stroke of his brush. But it is not a joyful smile, and she can’t decide whether she’s grateful or disappointed that not a single soul in this room recognizes it for what it is. 

Her body is weightless as she walks towards the throne, having lost count of exactly how many guards line her path to her father. Anxiety churns within her, and if not for Dalia keeping pace behind her, Jasmine has the feeling that she would have run from the room the moment she’d entered it. 

Prince Ali stands tall beside her father, who is seated on the throne with pride. Pride at being able to finally control the reigns on his daughter, no doubt. 

At her approach, the prince offers her a wide smile, a nervous chuckle escaping him as she nods her head in acknowledgement. He looks exquisite in his outfit of white and spun gold, and his servant, who is dressed in the same bright blue from their initial meeting, gently elbows his master in warning. Prince Ali would indeed be perfect if only his head was not so empty.

Jasmine tries exceptionally hard to avoid the figure that shadows the throne like midnight, but she loses that battle the moment that Jafar lays eyes on her, his jaw clenched tight and his mouth set in a harsh line. The combination of red and gold which he usually wears is much more striking today, screaming of broils and battles and victory which he will not acquire. What victory that may be, Jasmine does not know, and this is yet another one of those moments that she wishes she could peer into his mind and read his thoughts like he so often is able to do when it comes to others. 

She makes her first mistake when she begins mentally tallying Jafar’s faithful ministers, who appear as a blur of blue at his sides. Six on his left and six on his right. Twelve in all. 

Jafar’s vacant gaze snaps to hers, and his eyes are suddenly aflame with the initial spark of a candle being lit. Realizing she’s shaking, Jasmine’s breaths turn quick and shallow, unable to find anything even resembling an anchor to keep her from spilling the contents of her stomach on the carpet.

She pauses at the top three steps, just before the throne, and sees the sparks still lighting Jafar’s eyes. And then he covertly winks at her, the starlight slipping from his gaze all in the space of a moment.

He would look divine as Sultan.

She swallows down her gasp, surprised at the audacity of her own thoughts. She is going mad at the worst possible moment, and yet, no matter how many ways she turns to examine the thought in her head, it's true, he would make a stunning spectacle as Sultan of Agrabah. Ruling with an iron fist when necessary and giving her people what they need whenever they need it. 

And this is where Jasmine makes her second and final, fatal mistake. 

She turns to her father, takes in his beaming face, and is suddenly spurred on by the fires of revenge. She wants to get back at him, wants to shock him into silence. There exists a thrill in disobeying, in being the exact opposite of what everyone perceives her to be. 

The other part of her too, burns bright. The part that is selfish and simply wants what she wants. Somehow, Jasmine knows that it’s that part that will win today. 

She takes one final look at her father, then allows her gaze to linger on Prince Ali, his servant, and Jafar’s ministers. She cannot look into his face, for if she does, she fears she will lose her nerve.  Her father stands, saying, “Princess Jasmine of Agrabah, daughter of Hamed, Sultan of Agrabah: Is Prince Ali the man you choose to be your husband?”

Jasmine faces forward, her breath staggering, her mind drunk with thoughts of what could be if only she can find the strength to do this. There is no guarantee of course. It’s highly likely that her father will punish her severely and that Jafar will spit on her grave when she draws her final breath, but she must try. Has to try, because the alternative is far worse than any nightmare she could ever conceive. 

She’s been practicing for days now, practicing the exact words she would say in this moment as her father asked her to confirm her choice. The palace's tutors had made sure that she could think of nothing else except that resounding “yes” during her meals and whenever she went about her business. She was told what would happen when she did say yes, but she was never told what would happen if she said no. Probably because no princess had ever said no in the kingdom's long history. Either that, or any echoes of a “no” had been wiped clean from any surviving records.  


Either way, Jasmine will find out. She will be selfish today, and by doing so, hopes that someone else will be selfish with her, too.

“No,” she begins, and a taut stillness travels through the room, a hushed murmur sweeping through like the plague. Prince Ali’s smile slips off his face like oil, and Jasmine’s father looks as if a thief has threatened to stab a sword up his rear end. Perhaps she should have made certain to have a healer or two on hand. 

Jafar has stopped breathing. He has turned to stone, like a victim claimed by the gorgon of myth, cursed to never walk the earth again. He does not look at her. He does not look at anyone, and for a foolish moment Jasmine fears him dead.

But she does look at him. She never stops looking at him as she proclaims loudly in a steady voice, “I choose Jafar, Grand Vizier to the Sultan of Agrabah. That is the man I choose to be my husband.”

At her words, Jafar’s gaze snaps to hers, and his magic whips against her cheek, burning like a poorly-placed warning before the storm. His rage rains down like the edge of a blade, invisible to all but her. 

And then, before she is able to utter yet another word, the shouting begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And for those of you wondering--yes, Jafar and Jasmine will absolutely be arguing in the next update. We can't have a happy ending without some drama, can we? A few more secrets need to be revealed first...


	10. Nightmares

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***PLEASE READ BEFORE PROCEEDING.*** 
> 
> I wasn't sure whether to update the fic to include Archive Warnings, so instead what I've done is updated the tags. Please be aware that this chapter contains mentions of rape and dubious consent. It's in a flashback and only one small paragraph, but it is there, so if you're sensitive to that please keep yourself safe. 
> 
> This chapter was a joy to write, but it's much longer than my usual updates, so I apologize in advance if there are any mistakes or inconsistencies. I did my best to edit as much as possible.
> 
> Thank you all for your support on this fic! We're nearly at the end. I hope you all enjoy this one.

The sight of Hamed twitching like a spider mere seconds after it had been stepped on is the most comical sight Jafar has witnessed since the title of vizier had been bestowed upon himself—and that speaks volumes.

It has always been believed that the palace has stood as an exquisite example of a civilized establishment, but no longer. Jasmine made it so the moment the word “no” had erupted from her mouth, that one seemingly insignificant syllable clubbing her father to death in a mere instant. He gapes at his daughter stupidly, inserting a finger into his ear as if this will undo what has been unleashed upon the throne room. When he realizes that he has, in fact, heard correctly, his mouth drops open and a vein in his cheek pulses, suggesting that a bomb of astronomical weight has just been dropped into his lap without so much as a warning. Hamed is used to dealing with explosions, but not of this calibre. Not even close.

Jafar feels faint and nearly sways on his feet. He cannot breathe, cannot see, cannot think, for everything is a blur of shouting ministers and a gaping Prince Ali and a wounded Sultan and a handmaiden who is doing a very poor job at hiding her glee and—

Prince Ali reaches for Jasmine, saying something that he cannot hear over the ringing in his ears. To Jafar’s surprise or horror—he cannot decide which—she wrenches off the comb that secures the twists in her hair and thrusts it at Prince Ali. It hits him squarely in the forehead. Jafar wants to laugh, wants to cry, wants to scream at the ridiculousness of it all. This is insanity. He can’t be sure whether Jasmine meant to hit him or not, but it doesn’t matter, for the expression on her face is stoic and decisive. She is focused on her target, and she will not be stopped now. 

Turbans fly as Jafar’s ministers engage in a shouting match for the ages, arguing over the princess' lack of obedience as if she is nothing more than a piece of decor adorning the pillars supporting the ceiling. Hamed surveys it all, a king overlooking his court jesters making a mockery of the name Agrabah. His chilling gaze turns Jafar’s limbs to lead, and Hamed remains still, his mouth beginning to form the sounds of his name. Jafar flees before the first syllable has even been uttered.

He nearly trips over Prince Ali’s crumpled form on the carpet, groaning in over-exaggerated pain while clutching the spot where Jasmine’s metal comb had hit. There’s something strange about the boy, something that doesn’t quite add up, and Jafar cannot particularly say he’s sorry to see the poor excuse of a prince sprawled in a tangle of limbs, his dignity in shambles. 

As if he’s one to talk. Dignity is the last thing he has, especially after this.

What Jafar desires above all else is to scream, to lock himself in a room spun of infinite darkness and scream until his voice is no more. Curses and epithets that he would never dare to unleash in the presence of any lady cross his mind, and they are nearly ripped from his throat as he turns into the corridor leading away from the throne room. 

Hurried footsteps slam against the tile, and they draw closer, the angry clicking of heels allowing him no manner of escape. He knows those footsteps, has heard them echoing on the stone steps of his tower night after night for years, and suddenly—suddenly he wants the world to know, to see, to see his true nature when in the presence of the kingdom’s precious princess. 

Jafar spins and is met with the sight of Jasmine running down the hall, pulling off her sandals while stomping loudly towards him.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she shouts, oblivious to her rapidly-growing audience. The scene in the throne room had caused the guards to emerge from their various stations, and the palace’s guests—who had come to attend the princess’ upcoming wedding, no doubt—to emerge from their chambers to gawk at the commotion like goldfish.

_Why not?_ Jafar thinks. Instead of preparing for a wedding, surely Hamed will be preparing for his execution, so why not say what’s truly on his mind? Why not take advantage of the situation? Who gives a damn who sees, who hears? Everyone in the kingdom will knows what has occurred within the hour.

“How. Dare. You,” he spits at her. A coil unfurls within his chest, a coil fashioned from steel and rage and flame. “Have you lost your senses? Did you feel big and brave humiliating me in front of everyone that matters? Does it make you feel mighty knowing that you have spit in the face of everything I have worked for?” His anger burns, burns, burns, and Jafar is fighting every inch of himself to reign in the magic that threatens to engulf him and everything in the vicinity. He had felt it earlier, snaking towards Jasmine like the crack of a whip, and though his vision is painted in nothing but fury, he finds himself hoping that he had not hurt her. 

His anger isn’t even about her, not really. It’s not about his status at court, or the ostracisation he will face, nor the executioner’s blade that hangs above his neck, poised to end his miserable life. No. This is about the violence laced within Jasmine’s words, violence that pointed towards him meaning more to her than he actually does. 

_ That is the man I choose to be my husband. _

Under any other circumstances, he would have been elated to hear those words, but not now. The insinuation had been clear. Though she had not said it out loud, her gaze had never once slipped from his as she uttered those words.

That she desires him, _loves_ him—these are lies that she had proudly declared before all those bearing witness to her confirmation of the man her father had chosen for her. She does not love him, and the hope which she had sparked in his heart is the worst kind of violence. Worse than murder, worse than death itself, the cruelty of her betrayal stands as the foulest thing she could have ever done.

“Would you have preferred for me to play the part of the obedient, darling daughter?” Jasmine shrieks. “Would you have preferred to watch me present my hand to Ali, complete with a ribbon and a thank-you note?”

“Now you listen to me _little girl_—“

“—don’t you dare call me little girl! I am not a child. Do not presume you have the authority to act like my father when you—“

“—and yet you behave like nothing more than a petulant child whose sweets have been confiscated!” Jafar bellows. “It seems to me that you are in grave need of a parent if you cannot even be trusted to behave yourself during something as serious as a Validation Ceremony.”

It is here where Jafar pauses to look at Jasmine, to really look at her. Her ebony hair is wild, loose over her shoulders, with a few braided pieces threaded through the strands. A light sheen coats her skin, and he is certain she’s doing all she can to curl her tongue against the torrent of insults whizzing through her mind all at once. He however, is holding nothing back. He knows that he’s hurting her, knows it and doesn’t care, because being honest with her will mean admitting the reasons for his fury, his reasons for abandoning her in the present and in the past. And he doesn’t think he’ll be able to survive if Jasmine reacts the way he believes she will. He simply does not have the strength to lose her all over again when she’s been lost to him from the very beginning.

Hamed appears at the top of the stairs behind his daughter, flanked by several of his guards. She is unaware of her father's presence, but Jafar is not, and so he says in a cold, snapping tone, “Just because we shared an intimate moment last night in the garden does not mean that you can shirk your responsibilities and place blame on others. You could have stated anyone’s name during that ceremony, anyone’s at all, and yet you choose to sully mine. A childish crush is no reason for you to throw away your future. And make no mistake, princess, that future will not be with me.”

Jasmine’s jaw goes slack, and Jafar can tell she’s hurt; it flickers to life in her eyes, damning evidence of his ability to mar everything he touches. He does not know how to love, only to hurt, and she deserves so much better than that. No matter how much he may love her, no matter how much he may desire her, letting her go is the only choice left to him. And if the stupefied expression on Hamed’s face is any indication, Jafar will not live to see another sunrise. This is what’s best, for both of them. Especially Jasmine.

_She does not love you. She does not love you. She does not love you. _Over and over he tells himself this, tells himself that he must hurt her to protect himself and give himself some semblance of defence from the things which he cannot tell her.

“Coward,” she whispers. “Coward!” She screams it over and over again, releasing it into the world until it is permanently etched into his skin with the point of the sharpest blade. Yes, she is not wrong—he is a coward. He has lived as one and will likely die as one, but at least he can walk away knowing that he truly did love her, even if it was in the worst of ways. 

He doesn’t blame her, can’t blame her. What she’s done will hurt her just as much as it will hurt him, but why she chose his name—why his name when there were so many others she could have used—is completely illogical.

It is illogical because she does _not_ love him. How could she? She had kissed him greedily, burying herself into the heat of his body as if it had been the most natural thing in the world. But lust does not equate to love, and after the last few years, after that one moment that had caused a rift between them, he cannot imagine how she could ever love or forgive him. He’s not looking for forgiveness, but it would be nice to have it. For that reason alone, the gods will refuse to bestow it upon him.

“What are you afraid of?” she finally asks, clearly having had her fill of screaming herself hoarse. “Is it because you’re afraid of people knowing you have feelings, of appearing weak, of showing the world that you can, in fact, love? Is love weakness to you?”

Jafar eyes Hamed, who stands rooted in place, motionless and expressionless. Jasmine follows his gaze, and her face grows ashen at once, her hands flying to her mouth in disbelief. She had been so focused on shouting at him that she had failed to notice her own father observing the scene in the same manner that he would observe a group of dancers at a feast. “You know not what you speak of,” Jafar says in an icy monotone. “You lied in that throne room. You lied to get out of marrying that blundering fool, and while I certainly understand your reasons for doing so, you would do best to keep my name out of it.

Jasmine doesn’t answer. She wets her lips, her gaze glued to the floor, “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh I assure you, I am completely serious. I will not have you risking—“

“You think I lied to get out of marriage?” she screams, her voice rising in volume yet again. “You think I casually dropped your name into the conversation simply to entertain myself, perhaps for some comedic effect? Is that what you believe?” Mist swirls across the surface of her vision; she is close to tears.

Without a single word, he whirls and leaves her standing there, broken and screaming any and every vile thing she can think of to his retreating back. She is quite the markswoman, for her words pierce his armour, leaving dents that will soon annihilate his final flimsy defence. 

How or why Hamed is not sending the guards to arrest him, Jafar does not know, but he takes the opportunity to sweep from the hall, Jasmine’s voice clamouring with the syllables of his name as he retreats further and further away from her. He thinks he hears Hamed calling her name, but he's not sure, and before he knows it, Jasmine quietly falls into step beside him, her fingers brushing against his hand. He does not stop walking, but because he is a weak, pathetic man, he allows her to slide her hand into his, her fingers crushing his in a clear message.

She is angry, so incredibly hurt and angry, yet she is willing to touch him, to offer him her hand as if they weren’t just slaughtering one another with their words in full view of the entire royal family.

He squirms away from her touch, yanking his hand back.

His skin clammy and his heart thundering, Jafar slips into his tower and runs a hand over his face, as if this act alone can erase the sheer panic drumming through his veins and settling in his throat. Not caring whether Jasmine has followed him inside, he quickly removes the armour molded to his chest and loosens his robes, his turban tumbling off in the process. He sinks down onto the cold, hard floor, his bed frame digging into his back, but he feels nothing. He is an empty well brimming with dread and self-hatred that could quite literally kill him.

To his surprise, Jasmine had not entered the tower with him, but instead stands just outside the door, barefoot and her back turned. Realizing that he’s seated on the floor, she steps inside, and the moment she does so, Jafar blankets the room in a gust of magic, sealing the door and windows. For better or worse, this will require privacy. Best get it done quickly before Hamed comes looking for his head to hang from the chandelier. 

Wordlessly, Jasmine wedges herself between his knees and sinks to the floor with him, bracing her hands on his thighs as she sits between his legs. He suddenly grows very hot and doesn’t have the faintest clue where to put his own hands, but Jasmine’s touch is still there, warming his skin through the disheveled mess of his robes. Strands of her hair, which is even wilder than before, tickle his nose, the scent of her melting away the coldness that scrapes his insides. Without meaning to, he closes his eyes and buries his face in her hair, suddenly overcome by the desire to begin weeping where he sits. Jasmine leans into him, her back pressed firmly against his chest. He does not touch her, and the silence is maddening. 

“Why are you so afraid?” Jasmine asks, shattering the eerie quiet. He doesn’t want to answer her, wants to keep the truth from her for as long as possible, but the woman who sits here cradled between his thighs is not a woman who will relent. Her voice comes as a gentle prod, as if afraid that he will break. And she will continue to prod with that very same gentleness that he knows he does not deserve. 

Jafar’s hand wanders to her neck, his fingers briefly curling around her throat just before going to rest above her heart. Her skin is cold. Jasmine does not run, does not scream, does not ask him to stop. She simply **is**, his hand dangerously close to a part of her body he has no business touching. She burrows herself closer to the heat of him, and he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t have a single damned clue as to what’s unfolding. 

“Several reasons,” he tells her. “Reasons that you would not understand.”

“How do you know I wouldn’t understand? If you don’t confide in me, you’ll never have the chance to make me understand.”

She’s right of course, but the feelings of inferiority come rushing back, and just the thought of showing her those memories, of showing her who he really is—that is more frightening than the memories themselves. 

He’s glad she can’t see his face. He would crumble otherwise.

Years ago, when Jasmine had gotten too close, when Jafar had found himself wanting her in ways that could never come to fruition, he had done something terrible to her. Something meant to keep her away and ensure she would look at him with nothing but hatred in her eyes for as long as she lived. He had gotten his wish—a wretched wish that he should have never wanted to begin with. Because something had shattered within Jasmine that day, he had broken her, poisoned her with his selfishness and greed. It had been the worst thing he had ever done to her, but worse than that is knowing the reason why he had done it. 

Unlike Jasmine, he had not been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. She knew this, nearly everyone knew it, but there had always been more to his story than this. Grand Vizier he may be, but Jafar has never stopped being ashamed of how he arrived here, at this place, this kingdom, with this title. He does not want to tell her what he has had to do to survive in the years before Hamed took pity on him. The contempt in her gaze will be nothing but a guarantee. 

"Do you still not understand why your father told you he had consulted me in choosing Prince Bastard Ali as your husband?” It’s not his fault that a note of bitterness creeps into his voice at the name of that cretin, but Jafar has always worn his jealously like a second skin, and despite his mask it has always been a difficult thing to hide. “Take a guess, princess. What would be the one reason that would spur your father to such desperate action in such a short period of time? Think carefully. I promise the answer isn’t difficult to find.”

He drops his hand from her neck, and she says in the quietest voice possible, “I know, I know why. He knows…about us.” She shifts her weight so that she can turn to look at him, and Jafar feels as if he’s been punched in the jaw, his bones snapping in two at the ferocity of Jasmine’s stare. His eyes drop to her mouth, then back to her eyes, which are black as pitch and brimming with questions. Questions…and undeserved trust. She continues, “But that doesn’t answer my question. _What are you afraid of?_ What are you running from? Every time you touched me, before, every time you were near me, when you kissed me—” Jafar makes a strangled noise at this particular part, “—was none of that ever real? Or are you running exactly because it was real? Which one is it?”

There is no trace of anger in her face, and that is perhaps the worst thing. He is running because it’s all real, all of this is real, his love for her has always been real, and the fact of the matter is that women like her do not want men like him. 

Broken men cannot be loved.

He grasps her chin in his fingers, and a gasp rolls off her tongue. “I can show you,” he finally says, his voice raw and filled with some measure of barely-concealed hesitation. “If you wish, that is.”

She places her hand on his, the one gripping her chin, and laces her fingers with his. “What can you show me?”

His memories. He can show her his memories. The memories of the past that cause him shame, that cause others to view him with thinly-veiled disgust. He will show her the parts of himself that he has always kept hidden from the world, but most importantly, from her. “The truth,” he tells her. “My memories. With my magic—I can show you my memories. But I must warn you, they will feel so real, so real that you may find yourself questioning your own reality.”

Jasmine nods slowly to herself, trying very hard to come to grips with the information he’s sharing. Yet another unpleasant surprise he has gifted her with that she must contend with. “Alright,” she seems to say to no one in particular. “Alright. Good. Alright, so you’re much more powerful than everyone else seems to believe. Good to know.” He smirks. He can’t help it. “Why can’t you just tell me what you need to?”

“Because there is something in my past that you must know about. I do not believe you will take it well. If I tell you, perhaps you will not think it to be as bad as it truly is, and I need you to see precisely how bad it is. I can only do that by allowing you into my memories.” 

He doesn’t want to let her see, certainly doesn’t want to lay his past bare for her to poke and prod however she chooses. But this is the only way. He has hidden himself away from her for so long, locked every shard that makes up himself with a useless, paper key. She deserves the truth, even if the truth will kill him. Even if it will cause her to run from him and never look back. 

“It can’t be that bad,” Jasmine scowls. “What did you do, kill a man? As if that’s the worst a person could ever do.” Of all times to make a joke, she has to choose now. But it’s more than that. This is her attempt at lightening the mood, at giving him some measure of strength to get through this, and he is grateful for it. So grateful.

But _gods._ If she believes that murder is mild, then perhaps he may have a chance after all. He clicks his tongue. “Fascinating how you immediately place murder at the top of your list. That implies you think I’m capable of it.”

“Oh but you are,” she says boldly, though she does not meet his eyes. “I know you have—_look._ I don’t care. I don’t care what you may or may have not done in your past. I am not here to change you, and I’m not interested in trying. Even though we may not like it, sometimes taking a life is necessary when there is no other option.” She looks up, and he is surprised to see stars in her gaze, drawing a path down to his own. “But I know you. I know you to be cruel, but I also know you to be merciful. Whatever you’ve done, I know that you did it because you were given no other choice. I believe that whatever you want to tell me—show me—is no different. I see who you are.”

“You see what you want to see.” Jasmine opens her mouth, ready to protest, but she bites her tongue at the chiding look on his face. “Listen to me. You must be certain, do you understand me? You must be absolutely certain in every sense of the word that you wish to do this. Because it will not be pretty, princess.”

She ignores him and eyes his staff which is perched on the floor. “How does it work? Your magic? In this instance, I mean.”

Jafar sighs, a headache beginning to build behind his eyes. He cannot believe he is going to do this. May the gods strike him down for what he is about to agree to. “Your vision will fade,” he begins, drawing out each word so as to convey the gravity of the situation. “Your vision will fade to black, beginning from the edges and ending at the centre, at which point you will be able to witness my memories. It will feel real, as if it is happening to you in the present. I can pull you out of it at any moment, of course.” And he plans to. He plans to pull her out of his head the moment that she’s seen what she was meant to see. 

Jasmine chews her lip, thoughtful. A fine line appears between her brows, as it always does when something weighs heavily upon her heart. “Will I be you?” she asks. “That is, will I see the memory from your perspective or will I be—“

“Absolutely not,” he cuts across, his tone hard and making her flinch. She _could_ view the memory that way, experience it thoroughly from within his body, through his past self’s eyes, but he will not allow it. He will not subject her to the pain and humiliation that he has endured for years after the fact. “Theoretically, yes, you could view the memory through my eyes,” he says, his voice softening, “but it will not be like that. You will see it through your own eyes, as a mere observer. Silent, but there and witnessing everything.”

“Let me see.”

Jafar swallows. This will be disastrous. “If at any point you wish for me to pull you out, squeeze my fingers. Hard. Do you understand me?” Jasmine nods. “I will be holding your hands the entire time. The moment something feels wrong, or if you simply can’t stand anymore, let me know, and I will take you out.”

Jafar takes a ragged breath in a poor attempt at calming his nerves, and his magic crackles to life, curling in wisps around Jasmine’s mind. Her hands slip into his, and with very little warning, she is thrust inside a memory, a memory that is so real that she could reach out and touch it for herself.

Her fingers tighten around his in an iron grip, and he knows what she is seeing, has spent many sleepless nights over the course of a decade waking up from nightmares and screams of shadows come to claim him. Jasmine tenses, her jaw clamping together tightly. “It’s alright,” he murmurs against her ear. “It’s alright. I’m here.” 

Her body visibly relaxes at the sound of his voice, and he allows her to dip into the surface of the pool that is his past, knowing precisely what she will see at first glance. 

Himself, at the age of twenty-five, much younger and only slightly less weary-looking than he is now, being ordered to stay quiet. A man’s hand caressing his jaw, then whipping the back of his palm against his cheek. That same hand forcing open his robes until he’d stood there with nothing to shield his nakedness except for his own strength—or perhaps his weakness. Himself forced to his knees and told to open his mouth, the man before him shedding his own robes and pressing Jafar’s face to his groin. Himself, spread out on the floor like a rabid dog, the man behind him, taking any pleasure he could from his ragged body before tossing him aside and flinging a few gold coins at his feet as Jafar whimpered and tried not to let the pain show.

He tries to conceal the next part of the memory, he truly does and wants to more than anything, but decides at the final moment to leave things as they are. Jasmine will see the white, whip-thin scars that are slashed into his forearms, on his shoulders, and anywhere that was close enough to reach with a blade. Those scars stand concealed now, tucked away beneath his robes, standing as a testament to the self-hatred that has always shadowed his reality in shades of black and grey. They had been his way of coping with where he’d come from, what he’d done to survive, what he’d done to achieve honour and glory for himself. Some nights, when the fog of his nightmares jolts him awake, he relives the temptation to open up those old wounds. To slice open those scars yet again and allow the physical pain to distract himself from that other pain, the pain that will never heal. He hasn’t, but only because of Jasmine. When they met, she had given him something to hope for. He had a person who wanted to be around him—a friend, he had a _friend_—and he had thrown it all away when things became too real for him to bear. 

The memories are painful, even now, and Jafar wants to block them out. The only reason he does not is for Jasmine. Jasmine, who is bearing witness to his pain and pride and shame all at once at this very moment. Jasmine, who goes rigid in his grasp and grips his fingers so hard she might shatter his bones. Jasmine, who allows a whimper to escape her throat as her mouth rests on the curve of a silent scream. 

He quickly draws her back, pulling her out of the memory and anchoring her to reality. She stares at him, her body completely slack and tears leaking from her eyes, tears that she doesn’t even seem to know are there. She is gasping for air, shaking as if her body has been flung into frigid waters that swallow her whole. Raising a hand to her cheek, she prods the wet skin there as if trying to convince herself that she’s real, that she’s here, that the nightmare has indeed dissipated. Regret fills him, but not because of the shame. He _is _ashamed, but more than anything, he is sorry that he has ever had to show such wretched things to her.

With a sinking realization, he understands that he would do anything, absolutely anything on heaven and earth, to make Jasmine fall in love with him. Should he be unable to earn her love—and he will fail, he has failed already—he will be content with keeping her safe for as long as he is able, so she may never feel and endure what he has. This is his vow, his promise to her. The only promise that he will not break from this day forward.

He eyes the staff perched by his side on the floor, the rubies of the serpent glittering like a well-kept secret. He _could_ make her love him, could force her to bend to his every whim and she wouldn’t even know it. She would enjoy it, in fact, and nothing that she or anyone else could do would loosen his control over her. He could do it. 

He’s not going to do it. 

All these years, he could have taken her by force, could have had her heart simply by walking up to her and ripping it from her chest. But he will not be that monster. He will play the part of any monster save for the kind that takes away any sense of choice and freedom. Jasmine’s body and heart are her own, just as Jafar’s had been his own before being forced to work in that brothel. All for the sake of surviving. Of not starving. 

Jasmine unleashes a cry unlike anything he has ever heard before. He has never heard her weep like this, loud and piercing and unashamed, with her limbs shaking as if in the midst of a severe storm. Not when he had betrayed her, nor when Hamed had informed her of his decision regarding Prince Ali. These tears are different. They come from the deepest part of her, the part that holds years upon years of suppressed rage and grief.

“How—how many times?” Jasmine stutters. Her breath is cleaved in two, her voice tiny and chipped like stone. 

“Several.” He gently cups her cheek, wiping away her tears, but more dampen her skin almost immediately. Leaning into the warmth of his palm, she shuts her eyes against a fresh wave of tears, no doubt reliving the images he has etched into her memories. Memories that she should have never seen. “Sometimes it was men, sometimes women. You must understand, I did what had to be done in order to survive. Everything that you saw was exactly what I had signed up for. I knew what I was getting myself into.”

“Why did you keep this from me?”

“The same reason I kept it from everyone else.”

He makes a decision, here and now. He hadn’t planned on telling her about the boy in the market from the other day, about the brothel and his gift to him. But the words spill from his lips before he can seal them shut, and he tries not to look at her as he does so. There is too much pain tearing his spirit, too much pain and too much loss and just too _much_. Jasmine does not interrupt him, but listens carefully, her tears still dampening her skin, her ears falling upon the crest of his every word.

And then, when he’s finished, she takes his face in her hands and kisses him. Hard. His mouth opens in a gasp, and he slips his tongue past her waiting lips, drawing her close and digging his fingers into the dips of her hip. Jafar is drowning, down down down, and with every caress of Jasmine’s mouth against his, she pries from him every nightmare, every bad thought he’s ever had, every slice of pain that has ever haunted him. There is nothing left, nothing but light and laughter and hope speckling his skin like stars. 

Having taken her fill of him, she pulls back, tracing her mouth against his bearded jaw, his throat, his cheeks. All while cradling his face in the gentlest manner, a gentleness that he does not understand nor deserve. Why is she being this way? Why do this and treat him as a king when he is nothing more than sand scraped away by the sea? Titles and finery mean nothing, not when those were given to him by the grace of a Sultan who is close to ripping everything away. 

Jafar carefully presses his mouth to Jasmine’s one more time, savouring the warmth of her, savouring this dream that has seemingly turned to reality in the span of moments. Because it is just but a dream, a dream that will swirl away and dissipate to nothing once she has had time to truly ponder what she’s seen. She will run. He is not worth a damn thing. Not for treating her the way he has, for pushing her away when all he’d wanted was to hold her close. 

He can’t hold her close, not the way that he wants. The law has made that very clear. 

Her tears have mostly dried, but new ones appear at the ready, spilling over like the morning dew. Then, in the thinnest, tiniest voice imaginable, Jasmine breathes against his lips the very thing he has longed to hear for years but has dreaded all at once.

“I wish you could love yourself the way I have loved—_love_—you.”

He draws back, shock halting his breath and turning his gaze to endless night. His head is spinning— spinning, spinning, spinning into far off dreams and desires and places that he’d long forced to die. He hasn’t heard her correctly. He can’t have heard her correctly. Of course he hasn’t; she isn’t lucid, isn’t in her right mind. How can she possibly be after witnessing what she had? Once she comes to her senses, this will all be nothing but a distant nightmare. Yes, of course. She doesn’t mean it. Can’t mean it.

Those words, spoken to someone else? Certainly. But to him, Jasmine loving _him_? Impossible.

Swallowing hard, his throat closing and rubbed raw, he whispers, “What did you just say?”

She does not look at him as his fingers brush her cheek. This time, she is hot as coals. Her gaze snaps to his at the touch. “I—you heard what I said.”

“Jasmine.” She wears a patient, open expression, begging him to say more, and all he can do is stare at her lips, recalling the taste of them just mere moments before. He finds himself wanting to kiss her again, to lose himself in all the things that only she can give. “Do not say things that you cannot possibly mean.”

Her mouth sets in a determined line. “And what if I do?”

“You can’t.”

_ “But what if I do?” _

Jafar laughs in disbelief. Why is she so insistent? Surely she’s toying with him. But her eyes—those eyes filled with all the warmth of summer and the bite of winter—her eyes tell a different story.“Come now, princess. I have no titles, no land, no wealth. I hold the title of Grand Vizier through your father’s sympathy, and his sympathy alone. When that runs out—and believe me, it will run out—I will lose that as well. Do you really wish to tie yourself to someone whose assets will be seized the moment they step a single toe out of line?”

She does not hesitate. “Yes.”

“Spoken like a true, privileged royal.” He doesn’t mean to snap at her, but the weight of his past deeds crush his spine with a force that will never cease so long as he lives. “Not all of us have had the pleasure of being raised with a crown on our heads. Your shackles were fashioned of gold and privilege. Not all of us have been so lucky. But shackles are still shackles, and even I recognize that.” 

Jasmine lifts herself off the floor, and of course she’s going to leave. Of course he’s ruined things by being unable to wrestle his tongue into submission. Of course. 

But she doesn’t go. She surveys the golden orrery spinning slowly in the centre of the room, then snaps her gaze to the open window, a wistful look passing over her face. Her eyes light up, and he knows that whatever has crossed that mischievous mind of hers, it is something that will be of great inconvenience to him. Naturally.

“I want to go out,” she declares, turning to him with her hands on her hips. He tries not to dwell too much on how the movement tightens the fabric wrapped around her waist, exposing the shape of her body and leaving not a single thing to the imagination.

“Really, after all that, you want to be seen in public? Do you have any idea what you’ve just unleashed today? The entire kingdom is trading rumours in exchange for coin as we speak.”

“What do I care what people think? I deserve an adventure after today.”

Jafar groans. “And exactly where do you wish to go, princess, if I may ask?”

A coy smile stretches across her face, blinding him. “Back to where it all began,” she says. He swears his heart swells a million times its normal size. And then, she walks back to him and bends to seal his lips with one last kiss, murmuring against his mouth, “To the sea. Let’s go to the sea.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not an update. Please see below.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This isn't really an update. Rather, it's an apology. I know that many of you have been waiting several months for the final chapter of this story, but I will not be completing it. I will no longer be writing for this fandom, and will likely be Orphaning the fics I have posted to AO3's orphan_account in the near future. If there's anything you think you'd like to reread, please feel free to save the fics you want to your own devices.

That being said, if any of you want to write the final chapter of "Red" for yourself, I give you my full permission to do so and to post your own version of the ending to your own accounts. I have no problem with other writers finishing up the story for themselves.

From the bottom of my heart, thank you to all of you that have read and commented on this story since the very beginning. This wasn't ever a pairing that I thought I'd write. More specifically, I never though I'd write anything ever again. Maybe someday I'll come back, maybe this will just be a really long hiatus. Or maybe I won't. I don't know.

Thank you, each and every one of you, for all of your endless love and encouragement. I'm sorry for disappointing you all. Stay safe.


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